


So Shall It Be

by icarus_chained



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Awkward Conversations, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Fealty, Hope, Love, Loyalty, Marriage, Negotiations, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics, Post-Season/Series 07 Finale, Promises, Proposals, Protectiveness, Reconciliation, Reunion, Romance, Schmoop, weariness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: At Winterfell, with Tyrion at her side, Sansa watches Arya and Gendry, and comes to several rapid and forceful realisations. She needs a little while to come to terms with them. Tyrion may need a little longer again. And then comes everyone else.





	1. The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> *sings* Schmoop! Idfic schmoop! I'm coming off a horrifying three day migraine, and I needed something so syrupy it could be eaten with a spoon. So, um. Voila?

She was standing on one of the walkways when Tyrion found her, looking down at the courtyard where Arya and this Gendry Waters were emphatically _not_ flirting, not in any way, shape or form.

Well. Honestly they _weren't_ flirting in any recognisable form. Arya had never been good at that, and was only worse now. Still. Sansa knew her sister. She wasn't blind. She knew exactly what was happening down there.

What she didn't know was how she felt about it.

She would have liked to say she hadn't noticed Tyrion approaching her. He wasn't loud about it. He wasn't harsh or intrusive. He simply drifted up to the railing beside her, arms across his chest and hands hidden in his sleeves against the chill, and peered down through the slats to see what she was looking at. He didn't comment, mercifully. Maybe her expression forbade it. There was a tension to her these days. An awareness, a knowledge of who was moving around her. It showed. She knew it did. She just couldn't seem to help it much.

Tyrion, as he always did, attempted to spare her, to deflect away from it. He affected lightness and a lack of awareness, just as he always had. Sansa didn't know if she was warmed by that, or despaired that it was still so necessary. Now more than ever.

"A nice afternoon for a stroll," he commented, in blatant defiance of the snow on his eyelashes or the way he was huddled down into his cloak. Sansa felt her lips curl slightly in spite of herself. He saw it, when he glanced at her. His face creased in an answering, rueful smile. "Oh hush, my lady. Not all of us are hardy Northerners, you know. Some of us prefer milder climates, where a man won't freeze to death trying to get out of bed in the morning."

It was said lightly, a gentle tease, but he was huddled so tightly in his cloak. Sansa felt a flicker of concern for him. "Is your room too cold, my lord?" she asked quietly. They could be, for people not used to the chill. And he'd been given one of the bigger ones, as befit the Hand of a Queen. That was a compliment, to southern sensibilities, but also a liability when winter came. The more space, the more cold there was to fill it. Once the fire ran low, a large room could leech heat away from a body very easily. 

Some of that knowledge, that concern, must have carried in her tone. He glanced at her, startled, and then smiled again. More warmly. More genuinely. He leaned against the railing to look up at her, and shook his head. 

"Not in any way I think you could help, my lady," he said. "I suspect it's simply a matter of getting used to it. I've spent a lot of my time lately in much hotter surroundings. Don't you worry. Give me a week, and I'll be ready to jump up and down in the snow like the worst of you northern barbarians."

That last was said lightly, warmly, to take the sting out of it. A tease, not a condemnation, though Sansa hadn't really expected anything else. She lifted her lip in an answering smirk. "Well," she said. "If it does become too much for your delicate southern sensibilities, my lord, do let me know. This northern barbarian will be happy to help if she can."

He laughed, bright and happy, and she felt her shoulders ease a little bit. She felt some of her perpetual tension ease away. It was good to tease with him. She didn't tease much with anyone anymore, not caring to risk it, but with Tyrion it had always been safe. With Tyrion _she_ had always been safe. Even alone and surrounded by enemies, she could be sure he wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't take offence to something she said and lash out. He'd proven that. 

It made him, oddly, safer for her than almost anyone else. Maybe even family, in some ways. For them she had to be strong, had to help them take back and hold what was theirs. She had to show them her strength, had to show them that she was still a Stark where it counted, when all the North might sometimes doubt it. But Tyrion ... Tyrion had already seen her at her weakest. He'd seen her foolish and alone, too stupid to realise the monsters that surrounded her until it was too late. He'd seen her hated and derided, mocked at every turn, beaten and threatened. And he'd ... he'd seen her strength, even then. He'd admired her for it.

She felt her eyes sting at the thought. She turned, rapidly, turned to look out over the courtyard instead, her gloved hands tight on the railing. She felt more than saw his stir of concern in response. Below them, moved by some alien instinct, Arya glanced up at her as well.

She didn't want that. She didn't want it from either of them. She didn't want to be _weak_.

"... My lady?" he asked. So very quietly. So very gently. Sansa bit her lip and lifted her eyes up into the snow instead. Hoping, vaguely, that it would wash everything else out, wash it away. Her concern for her sister, _fear_ for her sister, for this love of hers that Sansa didn't know and couldn't trust. Her own weakness, her own longing ... longing for trust. Longing for ...

" _Sansa_ ," he said again. More firmly this time, reaching up to touch her arm and draw her towards him. Gently, even still. He didn't drag at her, didn't demand. He only touched her enough to draw her eyes back down. "Sansa, my lady," he said, his face creased in confusion and concern. "What's wrong?"

Because he wouldn't know, would he? Why should he? As far as he could tell, she'd simply started crying over nothing.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she managed, drawing herself up and dashing a hand quickly beneath her eyes. She turned to him, tried to fix her face into that mask of composure that had served her so well in King's Landing. A moment later, looking at him, she didn't know _why_ she'd tried that. He saw through it as easily now as he had then. His expression softened further, a glimmer of old pain floating upwards through it. He stepped back. Unwilling, now as then, to press her weakness any further.

In the courtyard, from the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Arya wordlessly turn and head for the stairs. She saw her sister set out to rescue her, to stalk silently up and put paid to old demons once and for all, exactly as she'd done for Littlefinger. 

But Tyrion wasn't an old demon. He wasn't a demon at all. And Sansa couldn't bear it suddenly.

"Will you come with me, my lord?" she said. More than a little abruptly, to judge by his startled expression. Sansa ignored that. She only barely waited for his flustered nod before she seized his hand and drew him along with her. Away from Arya. Back into the castle itself, where they might ... where they might have a little privacy. She could apologise to Arya later. Right now, she needed a little time to figure out for herself what, exactly, she wanted from them both.

Tyrion, to his credit, didn't protest being towed along in her wake. He had to come along at something of a stumbling run, her height and her stride too much for him without a warning, and Sansa stopped abruptly with a flush of shame. He staggered, by now heartily confused, and she grimaced at him in apology. She looked back, checked to see if Arya had followed them, and when she saw only her sister standing still, looking curiously after them but not following, she changed her grip on his hand and drew him along again at a more reasonable pace. He arched his eyebrows up at her, but followed gamely enough.

She wasn't sure where to take him, once they'd made the relative safety of the interior hall. She wasn't even sure why she was taking him anywhere. He was Daenerys' Hand now, he wasn't hers to drag about as she pleased. If he ever had been. But she wanted ... she just wanted. Something. With him, now. She _wanted_.

Her room, then. Just for privacy. Just for _safety_. And be damned to anyone who thought to question who she brought there and why.

He kept his peace along the way. She could feel him glancing at her, from time to time, his expression still that mask of concern and confusion. Well. More worry, now, than anything. But he kept his peace. He waited until she slid closed the door of her chamber behind them. He waited a minute longer, even, to watch her as she leaned against it and pressed her forehead desperately into the wood.

"... Sansa?" he asked finally. Reaching out, very gently, to touch her sleeve. She rolled her head, still pressed against the door, to look down at him. He looked back, his green eyes wide and worried. "Are you ... Have I upset you? I didn't mean to."

She almost laughed. Almost clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself. She managed to avoid both, if barely. She straightened up and shook her head instead. 

"No," she said softly. "No you haven't, my lord. It wasn't ... I'm sorry. It wasn't you. I shouldn't have dragged you here. I just ..." She stopped. Bit her lip, looked helplessly around the room as though it might help her. Unsurprisingly, it didn't. But she looked back at him, and the patience in his expression did. "I'm sorry," she said again. "Could I ... Might I have your advice, my lord? On a personal matter. Could I ask you a question?"

He blinked at her, nonplussed, but when her expression didn't change he nodded slowly. He glanced around quickly himself and, spotting the bench beneath the window, took her hand carefully in his and drew her towards it. Sansa followed him. Much more hesitantly than he'd had the chance to follow her.

"What is it, my lady?" he asked, when they'd managed to settled themselves as comfortably as they were able. He looked awkward, sitting there, his fur cloak snow-dampened and bunched up around his ears. He also looked solemn, and as gentle as he'd always been. Sansa bit her lip, and reached out to settle his cloak more easily across his shoulders.

"I'm not sure where to start," she said, focusing on her task and not on him. Ignoring the concern on his face as he allowed it. "I know I've behaved ... very oddly. I'm sorry for that. I didn't mean to ... I'm not sure what came over me."

She meant to take her hands back, there. She meant to pull away. She couldn't quite manage it. So she sat there instead, her eyes downcast, her gloved hands on his cloaked shoulders. She might have sat there for quite a long time, if he hadn't leaned forward slightly, just enough to catch her eyes, and asked carefully:

"Is it your sister? Has something happened to worry you?"

And at that question, so incisive and yet ever-so-slightly off the mark, Sansa felt her breath sigh out of her in relief, and some measure of composure slip back in and straighten her spine. She could start with that, yes. She could lead in towards her own weakness that way.

"Yes," she said, sitting back now, able to look at him. "Sort of. It's just ... It is a personal matter, my lord. You will remember that, I trust? You will ... treat it with confidence?"

He smiled lopsidedly at her, a tired sort of look in his eyes. "I am my Queen's Hand," he said softly, "not her spy. I would not tell her your secrets, Sansa, nor try to harm you by them. Not unless those secrets meant to harm us first."

"No," she said quickly. Promised him. "I wouldn't harm you either, my lord. I wouldn't tell you something to tear you between us. I wouldn't use you that way."

His expression faltered at that. Something very startled, very _wounded_ , staggered across his face, and he took his turn to look away abruptly. He took his chance to stare out across the room until he'd managed to gather his emotions safely back inside his chest. 

Sansa understood this one, though. She knew all about being used. She knew all about wanting to trust in promises that you wouldn't be.

"... Do you believe in love, my lord?" she asked eventually, carefully, and his head swung back around in startlement. His eyes bore into hers, suddenly, and Sansa took care not to armour herself in the face of them. A reward, a tribute to his own gentility. She left herself open, and asked the question honestly, if still obliquely. "I ... I think Arya loves someone. I think she wants to be with him. I want ... Do you still believe things like that can happen? Love. For ... For people as damaged as ..."

As Arya. As him. As her. Could love still happen, for people as damaged as them?

And he struggled with it. She could see it. She could see his expression soften, could see his desire to reassure, but she could see the grimace behind it as well. She could see the downward flicker of his eyes, the doubt and the cynicism and the despair. She'd seen it first the night they married, though she hadn't known him well enough to understand it then. She understood it now, as much through her own experiences as through his. 

Love was a pretty thing to believe in. If only it wouldn't betray you.

"... I would like to hope so," was what he finally said. Taking her hands gently, looking up at her with an expression that was rueful and solemn and sad. "I'm not ... You have to understand, my lady, I'm not a good person to ask for that. Love has never gone particularly well, in my case. But you ... Your sister, I mean. For someone like that, I ... I would hope it would go better."

"... Why?" Sansa asked. Her eyes were stinging again, so she lifted her face towards the ceiling. Her voice was thick and cold. She could hear it. "Because we're ... what? More innocent? Better, somehow?"

More foolish, rather. More _weak_. Her, at least. Maybe not Arya. But definitely her.

"Because you _deserve_ it," he answered instead, and fiercely. Holding her hands, tugging them towards him until she looked at him once more. "Sansa. My lady. You deserve it. You and your sister both. I ... You've been through so much. Both of you. I should know. My family caused most of it. You've suffered so much. After all that, if _anyone_ deserved ..." He stopped, and drew a careful breath. "What I mean is, if there was any justice in the world, you of all people would find happiness. As would the rest of your family."

And she was crying, she knew. She could feel the tears sliding softly down her cheeks. He stared at her, nearly desperate. _Willing_ her to believe it. Willing her to believe in something he didn't believe in himself, because he hoped that maybe for her it would be true.

_Why_? Why had he _always_ ... He'd tried to comfort her when her heart was broken. He'd tried to shield her when she was bleeding. He'd tried to shelter her when she was despised. She'd been forced on him as much as he on her, and he'd tried to shelter her regardless. He'd tried to do right by her, even when she'd despised him for it. When he'd been as badly wounded as she. She didn't know why. She'd been so stupid then. So blind and so petty and so weak. And he'd admired her anyway. She still didn't understand.

After all this time, she still didn't know why he, of all people, could make her feel so safe. Why he, of all of them, could make her feel so strong.

"I'm not a good person," she whispered, leaning close to offer it like the secret she needed it to be. "Tyrion. I'm not good. I never was, and I'm certainly not now. I didn't ... I've done things. I've survived things. I'm not ... Good things don't happen to people like me. Like us. I want ... I want to believe they can. I want to think that ... that he'll look at my sister, and love her, and treat her well. I want to believe that he'll never betray her. I want to believe that things like that are _possible_. But I don't ... I don't know if I ..."

Because that's what happened. They lied, they pretended, they waited until they had you close, had you bound, and _then_ they showed you what they really were. They waited until they had you trapped, and then they showed you what monsters lay beneath their skin.

And Arya wasn't like her, Arya was a thousand times stronger than her, but that didn't ... that didn't _matter_. It didn't matter if Arya would slit his throat the second he tried anything, if she would gut him the instant he betrayed her. He'd still have _done_ it. He'd still have lied to her, and let her hope, and shattered her heart from under her first. Sansa didn't know this Gendry, she didn't know anything beyond that Jon and Arya both liked him and trusted him, and that _wasn't enough_. Not for her. Not anymore.

But it wasn't her place to say anything. It wasn't her decision. It was Arya's, only Arya's, and all Sansa could hope to do was be there for her if it all went wrong.

All she could do was pray desperately that it wouldn't.

Because it ... it mightn't. Good things could still sometimes happen. Even if you were stupid. Even if you were weak. Even if you were alone among enemies, with no one left to lean against. She did ... She knew that too. She hadn't appreciated it then, but she did now. Good things could still happen.

Good men could still exist. 

He looked at her now. Tyrion. Pained and gentle and earnest, even still, even after all this time. Trying to shelter her. Trying to give her hope. Almost in spite of itself, her heart lightened.

"My lady," he said, rubbing her hands with his fingers. "I ... I don't know the boy. I don't know if he will or he won't be good to her. All I can say is that he _should_ be. He should ... He should look at her, and know what a glory he has in her, and he should treat her accordingly. And if he _doesn't_. If he betrays her. Then he deserves any fate that either of you could call upon him. It won't be her fault. It won't be because she deserved it. She _doesn't_. None of you deserve that. None of you should have to bear it."

And he looked so sad. He looked so battered and despairing. Because it wasn't about deserving. It never had been, never would be. They both knew that. So well. They knew it better than just about anyone.

Sansa bit her lip. She felt her hand move, felt it tug itself out from beneath his fingers. Felt it drift up to touch his cheek instead. She smiled at him, as lopsided as any he'd ever offered her.

"I wish I'd been a better wife to you," she said. "I wish I'd had the chance. I ... I'd like to think that we could been good for each other. That we could have ... could have found ..."

And her voice faltered, and she couldn't say it. Couldn't hope, not even that much. His eyes closed. His head bowed. She could feel the grief and the regret and the despair, feel it as deeply as if it were her own. Because it was, in a way. It was hers. It was his and it was hers, and she couldn't bear it either way. Suddenly, _ferociously_ , she couldn't bear it.

His eyes flew open as she kissed him. He froze, stunned and startled, as her lips pressed softly against his. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see any sudden revulsion. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her sleeves dampening from his still-wet cloak, and focused on nothing but the feel of his lips, the taste of her tears pressed between them. For an achingly long second, nothing else happened. For a terrifying moment, he gave no response.

And then, ever so gently, she felt his hands touch at her ribs. She felt his arms come around her, so careful and hesitant, and his mouth open up beneath hers. She felt a half-second of horror, a surge of blind terror, and then she remembered that it was _Tyrion_. Then she remembered that with him, she had always been safe.

She pulled away from the kiss after a minute, pulled away and dropped down to hide her face in the fur of his cloak instead. Her cheeks were flaming, she knew. Her eyes were wet, and her breath panted in her chest. But he didn't ask of her. He didn't demand. She'd ... she'd known he wouldn't. He held her, gently, and he waited.

"... I'm sorry," she managed finally. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he said, and it was light again, he was deflecting again to shield her. To shield them both, maybe. "A man is never sorry for a beautiful lady's kiss. It's ... It's all right, Sansa. I don't mind. I would never hurt you. It's all right."

She closed her eyes, and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I want to believe," she whispered, a ragged, desperate plea. "I want to believe in him. In her. I want to believe in _me_. I want ... I want to believe that love is still possible. That someone like me might still have it. Even after ... Even as ruined as I am."

"You're not ruined," he said immediately. His hand smoothed lightly over her hair. "You're not ruined, Sansa. You survived. All of us, all of them. You survived it all. You outlasted them. You _won_. They can't touch you for that. They can't have you anymore. And you ... you can have anything you want, after that. You've earned anything you want in this world."

She caught her breath. Caught it, held it. Did he mean ...?

And it would be foolish, of course. So foolish. They both knew that as well. She'd already promised not to use him, not to tear him between two sides, and what could this do besides that? What else could either of them hope for? But Jon and Daenerys were already ... 

Couldn't she have _something_? Couldn't she have just one thing? And him too as well. If ... If he wanted it. Her. Couldn't he, too, have that as well?

She leaned back. She needed to see him, to see his face. She sat up and leaned back, mopping at her face with both hands. They shook, both of them. Tyrion reached up to steady them, and clean the last few tears from her cheeks himself. Her breath caught again. She found herself staring at him. At his face. Sad. Sad, and tired, and not hopeful at all.

So she asked him, bluntly, because she couldn't bear that.

"What if I wanted you?" she asked, her hands knotting together in her lap. And he looked away, he grimaced and ducked his head, and she couldn't _allow_ that. She couldn't let him. She lifted his chin, gently, and she asked him. "Tyrion. My lord husband. What if I wanted you?"

" _Do_ you?" he asked, and there was a raw, ragged thing inside it. An anger, almost, a ripe and bitter hatred. His hands clenched, a tremor of rage and despair shaking through him. "My lady, you ... You've been through a lot. You've been hurt a lot. You don't have to ..."

"Have to what?" she cut him off. Harshly in her turn. "Have to settle? Have to latch on to the first person who crosses my path? Is that what you think I've done?"

He looked away. Stared fiercely down at his knees. Sansa felt a terrible fury start to fill her. A rage, as raw and shaking as his own. At him, for thinking that of her. And at everyone else, who had betrayed him and left him able to think nothing else. Her own hands clenched. She hunched forward, and spat her answer to that directly into his face. 

"I will not have _anyone_ ," she whispered furiously. "I will never give myself to just anyone. Never, _ever_ again. Do you understand? I will never have _anyone's_ hands on me that I do not _want_ there. I will die first. I _swear_ to you, I will die first. If you think I ... that I would just ... _throw_ myself at ..."

_That_ moved him. That stunned him backwards from his self-pity. He looked up, horrified, and raised his hands in sudden supplication. "No!" he said, rapidly and desperately. "Sansa, no. I didn't ... That wasn't what I meant. It's not ..." He cut off, shook his head in despair. "It's not that. I'm sorry. It wasn't that. I just ... I just don't know _why_ ..."

And all at once, the rage ran out of her. It slipped away, and left only exhaustion in its wake.

"Why not?" she asked tiredly. Oh, so romantically. "Why shouldn't I want you? I _trust_ you. I trust you more than I trust almost anyone. And you ... You know, my father promised me once. He promised me he'd find me someone brave and gentle and strong. And I dismissed him, because I was still stupid and swooning over Joffrey. I said I didn't want someone like that. But I _do_. Now, after everything, I do. And you ..." She had to pause, crying again, but she made it through. She forged ahead. "You are those things. You were always those things. Even with me. Even when I was stupid. Why can't I want that? Why can't I ..."

And gods, they couldn't go two minutes in this conversation without one of them having to look away from the other. Without one of them weeping. Mostly her. But she didn't mind it so much. Not with him. She wasn't so afraid to be weak around him. 

"Sansa," he said quietly. Leaning towards her, reaching hesitantly to touch her. "Sansa, I ..."

"I know you mightn't want me," she interrupted softly. Looking back at him, now, looking into the sadness and confusion and wariness in his expression. Feeling, suddenly, a desperate desire to be gentle in her turn. "I know that. I know I was forced on you as much as you were on me. I know there's no reason for you to want me, and plenty of good ones not to. Your Queen, not least of them. I don't mean to ... I wouldn't force you, my lord. I will never, ever force you. Not again. I just ... I feel safe with you, as with no one else. I feel _hope_ with you."

He couldn't answer that. She could see him trying, could see him reaching for the words, but none came. Oddly, she felt a twinge of pride at that. It wasn't often that someone managed to stun Tyrion Lannister into silence. More than that, though, she felt tender. She felt soft.

"Maybe," she started, a little hesitantly. "Maybe you could think about it? Just think. I know I ... I just pulled you along today without warning. Without thought. I didn't know myself what I meant to do. If I ... If I ever meant to do this. I know we both have a lot to think about. You're the Hand of a Targaryen Queen, and I am a Stark of Winterfell. There's ... There's a lot to consider. But I ... If you wanted to, I would ..."

She would try to be a better wife, this time. She thought she might manage it now. They understood each other better. They'd both been through so much. They both knew about using and being used, about being betrayed, about trying to hope in spite of it. They both knew the value of being gentle, of making a space where it was safe to be weak. They were better now, both of them. It wouldn't have worked before. Back then, when they'd both been struggling to keep their heads above water, neither able to help the other very much. Maybe nothing that came out of King's Landing could ever really have worked.

But they weren't in King's Landing now. They were in _Winterfell_. Her home, that she'd suffered and bled for and won. Her home, that she could build something from. Her home, where she could do her best to keep him warm and keep him safe in his turn.

Her home, that she could wrap like a cloak around him, and promise her protection in turn.

Gods, but she did hope when she was with him, didn't she? With him, with her family around her, she let herself hope for the most childish and foolish of things. But why not, hmm? Why not? She already knew the worst that could happen. 

And this time, at least, she wouldn't face it alone.

She breathed out, then. She let it fall away from her, all the tension and terror and desperation and hope. She breathed it out and let it go. And then she stood, carefully, and looked down at him. Her lord husband, once upon a time, the Hand of the Queen, sitting sodden and bewildered on her bench, staring up at her in naked confusion and despair. She smiled at him, gently, and touched her gloved hand to his cheek.

"I'm sorry for hurting you, Tyrion," she said softly. "I'm sorry for ... asking this of you out of the blue, all of a sudden. You do deserve better than that. But, I do mean it. If you ... If you want to think about it."

She turned away then. Turned to go ... oh, somewhere. Anywhere. To see Arya, maybe, and offer some oblique blessing towards her sister's hoped-for love. To see Arya, and talk her down from killing Tyrion, extremely unjustly, all things considered. To see Arya and _apologise_. For ... so many things. She turned to leave, and nearly stumbled when she felt a hand catch gently at her cloak.

"... I would love you," Tyrion said, so softly she almost couldn't hear it. He looked up at her, the strangest, wariest expression on his face. "If you truly wanted it, I ... I would love you, Sansa. So easily. You should be careful making offers, my lady. I would dearly love to answer them."

And oh, her heart tripped. Tumbled. Exulted. She felt a rush of ... of something _fearsome_ , something savage and delighted, and something gentle too. Something so soft and ravaged and sweet. She moved back to him. She returned to him by nothing but pure instinct. She cupped her hand about his cheek.

"I would want you to," she said. _Promised_. "I swear it, Tyrion. I would want nothing more, so long as you wanted it too."

And he nodded at that. He closed his eyes, his hand clenching in her cloak, and he nodded.

"I need to think," he said, when he opened them again. "I do need to think. I have to consider my Queen. And your brother, too. There are political ... I do have to think. How to say it, how to arrange it. How not to get killed in the process. But I ... I would like ..."

"I know," Sansa said, nearly breathless, her heart caught in her throat. "I know. I would too."

One thing. Just this one thing. And she would _fight_ for it too. He'd been her husband once. She would have him for one again. She would have him safe, and warm, and _hers_. And this time, _this_ time, she would do it _right_.

"All right, then." He smiled at her. Rueful, lopsided, but this time not so sad. "As you wish, my lady wife. As you wish it, so shall it be." 

Yes. Yes, for once in her life. As she wished it, so should it be.


	2. The First Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To lay the groundwork, Tyrion speaks with his Queen, and tries to serve as many of those he loves as he can by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping back to focus on Tyrion/Sansa and Jon/Daenerys a bit for this one. Though he maybe wins Arya a little leeway on the marriage thing too. Also. Um. I am amazingly shite at politics, and my canon knowledge is still shaky, so I'm not sure how this holds up. But, you know. Here's hoping.

Tyrion wiped his hands carefully on his jacket before he knocked on his Queen's door. They were shaking, he noted idly. He held them out for a minute and waited patiently until they stopped. Some wine might have helped steady them. He hadn't had any. This once, this was a conversation he wanted to have relatively sober. 

For Sansa's sake, at least, if most decidedly not his own.

Daenerys opened the door herself. Apartments in Winterfell were small, and perhaps something of the North and Jon Snow's blunt practicality had begun seeping into his visitors as well. They were less prone to standing on ceremony here. All of them, and Daenerys not least of all. She held the door wide, and invited him wordlessly inside.

She eyed him curiously as he came, as well. One might almost say suspiciously. Fair enough, really. There'd been a lot of secrets coming out of the woodwork lately, a lot of past betrayals and future complications coming merrily home to roost. He couldn't really blame her for being wary when her Hand suddenly asked for a private consultation, out of the blue and without previous reason, not long after being seen speaking to the Lady of Winterfell in private. 

And not just in private, but in the lady's personal chambers, no less. No. No, Tyrion couldn't blame Daenerys for her suspicions at all. Most especially since he wasn't entirely sure if he was here to allay them or exacerbate them further.

He owed her the truth, though. He owed her at least that. And Daenerys wasn't Joffrey, or even Tywin Lannister. This time, he very much hoped, this might have a chance of working. 

She offered him a glass of wine as they sat down in front of the fire. Together, like friends. There was even, he imagined, a hint of concern in her expression. He was nervous, he knew that. Sansa had blindsided him more thoroughly than just about anyone ever had. It showed. It couldn't help but show. Daenerys had survived the game for far too long not to take note of that, but she'd survived it well enough that she could still allow herself a glimmer of real concern about it as well. That was ... that was a good sign. He hoped. He very much wanted it to be.

"What is it?" she asked him, and bluntly. No beating about the bush for the Mother of Dragons. He did like that. Even still. He did appreciate it.

He paused to marshal his thoughts. She allowed it, for a minute or two, though both her wariness and her concern heightened all the while. Especially when he put his wine aside, untouched, to manage it. She definitely took note of _that_ , putting aside her own and let her worry show openly. Tyrion found a faint smile to offer her at that, a quick little thing as he clasped his hands together and leaned forwards. Not quite reassurance, but she leaned towards him as well in answer to it.

"... Potentially?" he started, watching her and assembling the words as he went. "Potentially, my Queen, a great problem. Or, perhaps, a great advantage. Depending on how we handle it."

Her eyebrow arched coolly. "Oh?" she said. With a hint of warning, yes. She recognised his artifice at work, recognised him gearing up to lay the ground. She allowed it, though. For the moment, only for the moment, but she allowed it. "And what _potential_ problem is this? I'm assuming it has to do with the Lady of Winterfell."

Not quite a question there. Almost a challenge. But that was all right. He'd expected that. She was canny, his Queen. He'd never expected anything else.

All right then. Blunt all the way, and let's see who was standing at the end of it.

"Sansa wants to marry me," he said, and even after more than a day it didn't quite come out evenly. His voice wobbled slightly, and his Queen's eyebrows shot upwards. Tyrion grimaced, and regained himself. "That is, she has offered the option of marriage to me. Well. Remarriage, in our case. She didn't ... I'm not sure she initially meant to. It was done on impulse, I think, and she remembered the potential complications later. It's nothing more than a tentative offer at the moment. She understands that there are things to be considered."

Daenerys stared at him. Nonplussed, he thought. By the bluntness? He'd spent an afternoon in a lady's chambers, a lady who'd once been his wife, she must have had at least _some_ thoughts in this vague direction. 

Though it might be hard to imagine, he supposed, even so. Sansa Stark had a forbidding aspect these days, and he was _himself_. The dwarf, the Lannister, the demon imp. Even with all the evidence in the world, it might be difficult to imagine anything potentially soft between them, let alone an offer of marriage. At least not from the lady's side, anyway. Hopefully his Queen knew him well enough to know that he would never have presumed from his.

Hopefully Jon Snow did too. And Arya Stark. But that was a problem for tomorrow. He'd owed it to his Queen to let it be hers first.

"... She wants to marry you," said Queen repeated slowly. She managed not to sound incredulous, as well, for which he was possibly a bit too grateful. "And ... the offer was made on impulse, you say? Not as a political overture?"

It was an astute question. It hurt, of course, but that only made it more appropriate. Of course that would be her first thought. It would be anyone's. And for better reasons that just his nature.

Their alliance was far from stable just yet, and the revelations of Jon's parentage had only made it less so. There were any _number_ of reasons for an overture like that, and, of them, personal desire was very far down the list.

And yet, here they were. Yet he believed her, believed Sansa. If only because he wanted to.

"I ... don't think so," he said at last, and he allowed a thread of honesty into it now. He allowed a glimmer of his own, very real, confusion and exhaustion and consideration to show, in his voice and his expression and his posture as well. He slumped back in his chair and gathered his wine to himself, though he didn't let himself drink it just yet. "My Queen, I ... I'm not sure how much you might have heard. About Sansa's marriage to me, and ... about her second one. The one to Ramsay Bolton."

An expression flickered across her face. A very hard, very _cold_ expression. So, yes, he thought. Daenerys Targaryen had heard a thing or two about Ramsay Bolton. Well. Most people had, he supposed, at least now. Most people had heard enough to draw conclusions.

"I have heard of Ramsay Bolton," she said, with more than a hint of fire and blood in her voice and in her eyes. "I heard she fed him to his own dogs. I thought it seemed a perfectly reasonable sentence. All things considered."

Yes, he thought. So had he. And it ... it pleased him, a little, to see that fire from his Queen on Sansa's behalf. In truth, it pleased him quite a lot.

He put that aside, though. Just for the moment. He took a deep breath, and turned his eyes to his wine. Kept them there, kept them away from her, while he tried to step as lightly around these truths as possible.

"She's been hurt, your grace," he started carefully. So very carefully. "In both her marriages. In mine, she was a hostage, a tool for my father against her family. And to Ramsay ... Well. The less spoken about that, the better. I imagine the institute of marriage is not one she has much faith in anymore. I didn't ... I didn't expect this offer. I didn't expect her to feel kindly towards me, not after all of that. Our marriage was ... It was forced upon us, both of us, and it was served under ... less than pleasant circumstances. Joffrey was ... My nephew was a nightmare, as a king and a ... I'm not even sure I should call him a man. He was a monster. A vicious little monster, and he hated both of us. He took liberties in his treatment of Sansa. I was not well placed to stop them, though I did ... I did try. I try to take some comfort in that fact. I did try. But I ... I imagined that as poor a comfort that was to me, it was even less so for her. I didn't imagine she'd want to see me again, let alone ... Well. Let alone anything else."

He chanced a look at her there. He gathered his nerves and raised his eyes to examine his Queen's expression. There was nothing but sympathy, though. Daenerys looked at him, and there was a cold, remote anger in her eyes, and a breathless sympathy.

"I'm sure you did all you could," she said, and he thought in some surprise that she meant it. "In your time as my Hand, you have never been silent about perceived injustice. You have never failed to stand in my path and dare me to kill you for it. You have never been a coward. I very much doubt you did any less for her."

Tyrion looked away there. Hastily. Desperately. He took a hurried gulp of wine and hoped it halfway disguised his response to that. She didn't try him, either way. She had patience, and pity, and let him gather himself in peace. 

"Yes, well," he said tiredly. "Whatever I might or might not have done, it never came to anything in the end. I was arrested for Joffrey's murder, and Sansa fled the capital with, apparently, Petyr Baelish. Who, it turns out, helped poison Joffrey for likely exactly that reason. I wound up drunk in your throne room, and she wound up married to Ramsay Bolton. I'm fairly sure I got the better end of that deal."

"I would hope so," Daenerys said gently, and offered a small smile when he glanced at her. "I do sincerely hope I'm a better option than a rapist and a torturer." He grimaced apologetically, and she waved it gently away. "But come, my lord Hand. Come back to the present for the moment. You said the Lady Stark wants to marry you. That she approached you herself, and on impulse. Clearly she doesn't blame you for what she has endured. It seems she holds you in a lot higher regard than you expected."

Tyrion nodded, and levered himself upright in his chair, out of his slump. "Yes," he said, and put his wine back to one side to focus again. "Yes, apparently so. And ... your grace, I do realise that it might not be genuine. That it _might_ be politically motivated, that Sansa might simply want to strengthen her family's position and be willing to put up with me to manage it. She's endured a lot worse, and she has a spine of steel. She always has. If anyone could manage to survive Ramsay Bolton and then throw herself straight back into the lion's den with me, it would be Sansa Stark. She just ... She didn't seem ..."

He faltered, couldn't quite figure out how to frame it, and Daenerys pre-empted him. She leaned towards him, frowning now, and finished his thought with slow suspicion.

"You think she wants something else," she said thoughtfully. "You think she wants this marriage for personal reasons. That she wants _you_ for personal reasons." A pause, as she narrowed her eyes. "You _want_ to think that. And you're afraid. Because, as a wise man once said, we should never believe things simply because we want to." 

It was gentle, that echo. She said it gently, with no mockery at all. He flinched anyway. She looked at him with open sympathy.

"You love her," she said softly. Not a question. "You love Sansa Stark. Don't you."

"... No," he said, and it wasn't a lie. Not exactly. "I don't ... Not yet. I ... _admire_ her. I always have. She was strong. She was proud. She held her head high, no matter ... no matter what the monsters did to her. She was kind. I do admire her. It could ... It could become love. Probably very easily. I am a fool in that regard. I always have been. But I like to think I've learned a thing or two from past betrayals. I'd like to hope that I could keep my head, even while my heart betrays me. _Again_."

He put wryness into it, managed a twist to lighten it at the end. Her expression didn't falter, didn't soften. She waited instead, and let him save himself or hang himself as he pleased. He tapped a hand, a shaky hand, on his thigh, and set about to do just that.

"It could help us," he said, sitting straight and meeting her eyes head on. "It could weaken us either. I do know that. But it _could_ help us. Many alliances are based on marriage, and this one ... this one has the potential to solve a few problems."

She sat back in her chair. Not the sympathetic friend, now, but the queen, calm and collected as she waited to pass judgement. It was enough. Tyrion had worked with worse.

"The North needs strengthening," he said, licking his lips as he pulled his thoughts into line. "Even if it was purely politically motivated, Sansa would be right there. On the surface, though, a marriage to me wouldn't help with that. I'm a Lannister. To them, before anything else, I'm a member of the family who wrought ruin upon the North. For her to marry me would not be a celebrated choice, especially not ..." He hesitated, gauged her expression, and then ploughed ahead regardless. "Especially not when combined with your own entanglement with Jon Snow. A Stark must sit at Winterfell. After everything they've been through, the North will accept nothing less. The King in the North has already bent the knee to one foreigner. For the eldest trueborn Stark to marry a _Lannister_ on top of that would be ... less than wise." 

Blunt, you see. Blunt all the way, and the Stranger take the hindmost.

Daenerys didn't bridle, though. She stayed calm, stayed thoughtful. She'd done a lot of that, since following Jon beyond the wall. She'd done more of that since finding a greater cause than conquest. As she had in Meereen, in Dragon's Bay. She had always been the greatest she could be, when her goals were higher than a throne.

It was enough to let him risk this. It was enough to let him try.

"It will have to keep until after the Night King is defeated," he said, firm and quiet. "I think everything will have to wait until then. You and Jon, me and Sansa. A few other things as well. We've already gained as much strength as we can for this fight, and likely the one after it as well. Either we'll win, beat the Night King, beat my sister, and take the Iron Throne, or we won't. One way or another our paths are set for that now. But _after_ that. After it, this marriage might prove useful. And maybe even before it, if the promise of it holds good."

"... Go on," Daenerys said. Mildly, giving nothing away, but that was good. That was good. Tyrion blew out a breath, and continued.

"When we win," he said. "After we win. You take the throne. Or Jon takes the throne. There's an argument for that either way. If he really is Rhaegar's trueborn heir, then he has the higher claim. That path has complications, though, and I'm not sure he wants it. He didn't want to be the King in the North, I doubt he wants to be King of the Seven Kingdoms either. At least ... At least not alone. And he loves you. He doesn't think he should, especially when it turns out you're his aunt, but he does love you. And that could complicate things, or ... or it could save them."

And he knew her expression there. He knew her feelings. Exactly as he knew his own. The fear, the hope, the doubt. The desperate desire. He knew them. Intimately. 

"He won't want to marry me," she said, and it was her voice that faltered now. Her voice that wobbled. "His face, when he heard the truth. He's been living a lie and he hates that. I'm a part of it. He won't want to marry me."

Tyrion twisted his smile in sympathy. "I think he will," he said, and gently. "It's not you he's doubting because of that. It's himself. Everything about himself. He's not who he thought he was, and he doesn't know how to deal with that. But it doesn't matter. He's a Stark, first and foremost, and to be a Stark is to do your duty. They're all the same, that way. So he'll fight, because of that. He'll fight this war, he'll win this war. He'll stand beside you at the end of it. He'll put you on the throne because he _promised_ you that. He bent the knee, he gave you his promise, and all the Targaryen blood in the world won't stop that. He will give you that throne. And because you fought for him, because you bled for him, because you stood beside him at the very end of the world, he will _trust_ you with it. He loves you. He trusts you. He believes in you. Whether it's as a Stark or a Targaryen, he'll stand beside you because of that. Prove yourself worthy, and he will give you anything in the world."

And she would. She _was_. She was already worthy. He believed that, or he wouldn't be here, and neither would Jon Snow. When it had been just the throne, just her birthright, he'd had doubts. Her temper. Her occasional cruelty. She was a conqueror by inclination, left to her own devices. But when she had a higher cause ...

When she had a higher cause, she was the best damned Queen he'd ever seen.

He tried to put that into his voice now. He tried to give it to her, to _show_ her. She only stared at him, wide-eyed, her composure vying with unwilling doubt. Tyrion buckled down, and laid everything he had on the line.

"He will marry you," he said quietly. "I'm almost sure he'll marry you. He loves you. He loves you, and you love him, and maybe that shouldn't be what a political marriage is based on, but maybe it can _help_. Maybe it can save us. Loyalty counts for more than fear. Every king or queen I've ever had misfortune to serve has proved that. Your father. Joffrey. My sister. Even Robert earned his share of hatred just through sheer disinterest. If you can make them love you, if you can give them reason to trust you and to fight for you, then your throne will be a thousand times more secure than any of theirs ever was."

"I know," she said. Strangely. Distantly. "I've seen how they react to him. To Jon. He serves them honestly, and they love him. They believe in him. It isn't always enough, but ... His family. Ser Davos. They love him too, and they make up the difference. They give him what he needs."

Tyrion felt a bolt of pity for her there. The way she said 'family'. They way she looked at them, the Starks and their ferocious loyalty, and yearned for what they had. 

He understood that, too. All too well.

"They love you too," he said gently. "Or they will. Meereen already does. I do. Missandei does. All of us you've already saved. And Jon. Jon too, and for the same reason. Because you earned it. Because you fought for us. Because you gave back everything everyone else tried to take away. And here you are. In Winterfell, on the edge of the Long Night, ready to fight for us again. They'll remember that, your grace. The North always remembers. When the time comes, they'll fight for you in turn. You've just ... You've just got to give them a reason to trust that you'll remember their service in turn."

And she caught him there. She caught the groundwork, caught the path, the purpose he'd come here for all along. She caught it, and straightened in her seat because of it.

"Your marriage," she said, with a flat, cold edge as she realised herself manoeuvred. Tyrion breathed, and didn't quail in the face of it. He'd come too far. They both had. 

"You're taking Jon Snow away from them," he said, with careful deliberation. "Even if it's to sit him on the Iron Throne beside you. Even if it's to give him all the Seven Kingdoms. You're still taking him away from them. The North doesn't care about southern problems. It only barely cares about the Iron Throne, and less now after my father and my nephew have shattered the last of their faith in it. You and Jon take that throne and they'll care about it again, but the North itself must still be served. A Stark must sit at Winterfell. A Stark they have reason to believe will be listened to."

She smiled coldly. "A Stark married to my Hand, for example?" she asked, sweet and dangerous with all her long experience of the game. "The sister of my husband and the wife of my Hand. The Lady of the North. Sansa Stark."

Tyrion exhaled slowly. "Yes," he said. "Sansa Stark. She has the allegiance of the Vale. She helped take Winterfell back from the Boltons. She stood behind her brother and supported him as King. She's the eldest trueborn Stark remaining, and Brandon ... Well. He has his own complications, and apparently doesn't want the job besides. The same with Arya. Sansa is their strongest piece. By the same token, though, that doesn't necessarily mean they'll want her to marry southwards. And it _definitely_ doesn't mean they would want her to marry me."

His Queen tilted her head, then. Confused, enough to knock back her suspicions. Thoughtful. "So where are you going with this?" she asked, curious as to his line of thought.

And this part ... this part was hard. Harder than anything that had come before. But Tyrion had failed to fight for Sansa once, failed to do her any good when she needed it most. Whether she truly wanted him or not, he wasn't going to fail her again.

And neither ... was he going to fail his family. What little of it remained.

"They want a Stark," he said quietly. "They want a Stark to sit at Winterfell, to pass the Stark name to their children. And that's a problem right now. Even if Jon Snow keeps the Stark name to stand beside you, he'll still sit at King's Landing, not Winterfell. Brandon Stark isn't likely to take the job. That leaves only daughters. And daughters have the problem of marrying away. Or ... or they would have. Unless their Queen, and their husbands, allowed them alternate arrangements."

Daenerys frowned there, suspicions back in full force. Justifiably. So very justifiably. But Tyrion was committed now, and the Stranger take the hindmost.

"Let Sansa marry me," he asked. Nearly begged. "Let her marry me, but let her keep her name. Let her _children_ keep her name. Let Winterfell belong to them and them alone. Let the Lannister name have no claim upon it. That will appease the North, and prevent one marriage from creating too strong a potential alliance against your throne. I understand why you wouldn't want the Vale, the North and the West to stand together, even if neither Jon nor myself would ever stand against you. So let me marry Sansa, let me be a Stark in all but name. And let ..." he took a fortifying breath, because here would be the breaking point, "let Jaime have the Rock. Let my brother inherit the Lannister name."

She stared at him in shock for a second then. He'd expected that. And then she surged upwards, thrust her way to standing, and he didn't flinch. He'd expected that too.

" _Jaime_ ," she demanded, turning in place for a moment before stalking over towards the fire. "Let _Jaime Lannister_ have Casterly Rock. The Kingslayer! The man who murdered my father!"

"The man who stopped a mad king from slaughtering a city!" Tyrion snapped right back. Giddy, courageous. Far past the point of no return. "The man who came to us, without shield or army or defence, to warn us of my sister's treachery! The man who will fight and probably die for us if the Night King comes tomorrow! If you must judge him, your grace, judge him by _all_ his actions, not just that one!"

"All of them?" she snarled, whirling towards him. " _Which_ 'all of them'? Shall I count his attempted murder of a child? Shall I count his affair with his sister that put monsters on the Iron Throne? Shall I count how he stood beside her, for _years_ , and let her destroy all around her without protest? Which _all_ should I count, my lord Hand!"

"All of them!" Tyrion shouted back. And then repeated, shakily, at a slightly more reasonable volume: "All of them. I know what my brother is, your grace. I know what he's done. As well as anyone in this world, I know what my brother has done. But he's _here_. He came here, knowing I knew that. Knowing _you_ knew that. He came here, to stand among people who rightly hate him, to try and face the end of the world. He came to answer for his sins, and for our sister's sins too. He came here because Cersei betrayed him, because _every king he's ever had_ has betrayed him. All of them. Aerys went mad. Robert beat and cuckolded our sister every day of their marriage. Joffrey was a twisted, sadistic little monster. And Cersei ... Cersei, who he has loved for all his life, blew up the sept of Baelor with hundreds inside it, proving herself in one fell swoop as mad as Aerys ever was. He came here hoping that you weren't like that, that _Jon_ wasn't like that. He came here hoping to die, for once in his life, for a king or queen worth dying for! That's ... that's what he is too. That's what he wants, what he values. Isn't that worth something?"

And gods, gods, he didn't even know why he said it. Why it still _mattered_ , even still, even after all this time. But Jaime. Jaime, of all of them. And family mattered, even still. Whatever else his father might have said or done, he'd been right when he said that. Family mattered. Even long past the point where you wished it didn't.

Daenerys was watching him, now. When he managed to look at her again, to uncurl his hands, to steady the ragged panting in his chest. Daenerys was watching him. He had no idea how to interpret the expression on her face.

"... He killed my father," she said again, but softly now. Carefully. "He betrayed his oaths. He has made an enemy of nearly all my allies. He bears your same name, but nowhere near as valiantly as you. And you want me to reward him. You want me to strip you of your birthright and hand it to him. I know you love him, Tyrion, but _still_ ..."

"The Rock will never have me," Tyrion interrupted flatly. No. Exhaustedly. He looked up at her, and willed her to see the truth in it. "It's not my birthright, your grace. Not anymore. I killed my father. I murdered him. Not at a distance. Not by poison or assassin. With my own hands. I am a kinslayer, and the West will never bow to me. Not after that. No matter what my reasons might have been, I slew their lord. My own father. They will never, ever have me."

Daenerys closed her mouth at that. Whatever words had been waiting to fall, they never passed her lips. Her expression blanked. Hollowed. She moved silently back to her seat and sat down again. Tyrion, equally tired and equally hollow, slumped back as well.

"I am a liability to you," he went on quietly. Ignoring, though grateful for, her faint twitch of negation. "In the West, at least, I am a liability to you. In the North, too, though the favour of the Starks may go a long way to alleviating that. If you hoped to use me to hold the West, then I am sorry, my Queen, but I have to disappoint you. You hold a Lannister, yes. But in every eye in Westeros, you hold the wrong one. My father is dead by my hand. There's nothing now I can do to change that."

She didn't argue. She didn't even seem particularly surprised. Maybe she'd come to that conclusion herself, somewhere along the way. Maybe she'd tried to imagine a way around it. Maybe even for his sake. But it didn't matter anymore. And there was a chance that it could serve a better purpose now.

"Let Jaime have the Rock," he repeated gently. "If he survives. If he fights beside us, against the Night King and against Cersei, if he proves his loyalty in blood and still survives it. Let him have the Rock. Father always wanted it to go to him anyway, as soon as he could persuade whichever king happened to be on the throne to release him from his oaths. Aerys did it to spite him in the first place, and I doubt you want Jaime on your Queensguard anyway. Give him back his birthright. Prove your mercy when it's justly earned. Prove your willingness to let go of old grudges, to build something new and better without the weight of the past. Prove ... Prove to my brother, to the West behind him, that you are a Queen worth dying for. Then give me to Sansa Stark. Hold out your hand to the North. Let them rebuild with your blessing and your _help_. Make them want to follow you. The North, the West and the Vale. The Riverlands, through Sansa and the remaining Tullys. The Reach, too. It's ours by alliance, and Jaime's by conquest. The Tyrells are gone. Ally with whoever's left, and you'll have the Reach too. We can build outwards from that. Raise new houses, lower others. We can ... We can build from that."

She stared at him. His Queen. She watched him as though she'd never seen him before. He couldn't tell yet if she approved of what she saw. He couldn't tell if he'd saved himself or hanged himself either. Honestly, at this point, he wasn't sure there was much difference.

"... You haven't told these plans to the others, have you?" she asked quietly. "Sansa, Jon. Your brother. You haven't told them. You haven't asked them if they approve."

Tyrion closed his eyes. "You're my Queen," he said. "I'm your Hand and you're my Queen. Didn't I owe it to you to tell you first?"

There was silence, for a second. And then there was a hand, against his arm. He opened his eyes, startled, and found her kneeling on the floor in front of him. Daenerys Targaryen. Queen. Mother of Dragons. She of the thousand titles. He found her kneeling on the floor beside his chair, something soft and full of fire in her violet eyes.

"Do you love them so much?" she asked, a strangeness in her expression. "Your brother. Your wife. Do you love them enough to sacrifice everything for them?"

Tyrion blinked at her, and then smiled. Crookedly. "Not everything," he said. "I'd still be your Hand, at the end of it. As ... As long as you allowed it, at least."

Something nameless swept across her expression, something bright and fierce and full of fire, and then it vanished again. Then she swept it away, hid it back behind her eyes, and she stood to her full height in front of him. The Queen. Every inch the Queen. He gazed up at her, and wondered why his heart felt so light.

"You will be my Hand until I decree otherwise," she said firmly. Coldly, but for the promise inherent in the words. "You will be my Hand until death, if need be. I shall accept nothing less."

He breathed out, a stumbling, laughing sort of breath, and nodded. Hand on heart, he swore again the silent oath. He pledged himself to her, sword and soul.

She moved back to her chair, then. She sat down, smooth and regal as any royal dared hope, fixing her skirts with casual hands. "As for the rest of it," she said. "There's a lot to think about. It's a long way in the future. A lot depends on who survives the coming war. A lot depends, too, on who agrees. We would have to speak with the others. Jon. Ser Davos. Your brother." A faint pause, and then: "Your wife. If she wants to be. If the state of the kingdom allows. The details would need to be negotiated, but ... I would have no objection if you and Sansa Stark wished to renew your vows. Indeed, if circumstances allowed, you would have my blessing."

 _Oh_. For love, he knew. For love and for friendship. For loyalty. Because she understood. His Queen, who had been bought and sold, who had been betrayed. Who longed for family, who wanted to believe in love. For all of that.

For all of that, and more, he could never hope to thank her. But he owed it to her to at least try.

"Thank you," he whispered, offering over blind gratitude. "My Queen. Thank you."

Daenerys grimaced, fear and pain and doubt, and courage to follow them. "Don't," she said. "Don't thank me yet. We've wars to win first. We've wars to _survive_."

"True," he agreed. "But we've friends to stand beside, and allies to win them with. We're in the North now, your grace. We stand beside Starks. And if I've learned anything from the moment my vicious idiot of a nephew cut off Ned Stark's head to this moment right here, it's that Starks do not fall easily, and the North forgets neither its enemies nor its friends." He smiled blackly. "Winter's here, your grace. Let us greet it with fire and blood."

And she smiled too, as thinly and as coldly. "Yes," she said. "With wolves and dragons, and lions too. The only ones left of value."

And maybe, by the end of this, the only ones left at all.


	3. The Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa. The wolf sisters talk about the family they've found that don't share their name, and what they might be willing to do to protect them, and how they might _help_ each other protect them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Stark siblings and Arya/Gendry this chapter. And, um. I'm bad at sustaining pace, so I'm not sure how far I'll get, but I figured I'd get it down while it's going strong in my head?

If there was anything the Faceless Men had taught Arya, it was the value of patience and preparation. If you wanted to be sure of your kill, then you needed to take the time to arrange it right. To study your target, to understand them. To know why they needed to die. 

That counted with family, too. Sometimes you had to take the time to get it right. Anything else only got people hurt. Ones that mattered. 

Arya had had more than enough of watching her family get hurt.

She'd let Sansa go the first time. On the walkway. Whatever was going on between her sister and the Imp, Sansa very clearly hadn't wanted her to intervene right then. She'd practically run trying to avoid it, and when she'd turned back, just for that moment, to face Arya, there'd been a look on her face that pleaded for time to deal with it herself. Sansa didn't ask for much anymore. And the Imp had looked more bewildered than threatening. So Arya had let her go, let her have a little time to try and fix it.

But winter was here. The dead were coming. This wasn't a time for fixing things yourself. This was a time for _pack_. For family. She'd given Sansa a night to figure out what was what. Now, Arya needed to get some answers.

Sansa first. The Imp could wait. Arya couldn't kill him immediately anyway, not with the Dragon Queen in residence. She didn't want to jeopardise Jon's position without having a plan to deal with the threat afterwards. But Sansa should have an idea about that, too. If the Imp needed to die, Sansa would know when best to do it. Sansa was good at the politics. That left Arya to be good at the killing.

A fair trade, really. She certainly wouldn't want their positions reversed.

She found Sansa sifting through papers in her solar after breaking fast. Arya paused in the doorway to study her for a minute or two. She didn't ... She didn't look distressed. Thoughful, instead. Anxious. The kind of worry that came with planning. She didn't look like she was hurt. If anything, she looked ... almost excited. Maybe happy. Huh. Maybe the Imp wouldn't need to be murdered after all.

"... Sansa," she said, and her sister's head came up in startlement, blue eyes wide and briefly terrified. Only for the smallest second. Sansa could hide her fear faster and better than almost anyone. But it showed, even still. A split second here or there. The Sansa who'd survived Ramsay Bolton tended not to enjoy surprises much.

It made Arya want to bring the bastard back, just to kill him all over again. It made her want to raise him and raise him again until he'd finally died as many times as he deserved. If anyone deserved a thousand deaths, it was that bastard.

Sansa'd seen to him, though. Jon and Sansa between them. Arya would never take their kill away from them.

"Arya," Sansa said, and her name was a breath of relief from her sister's mouth. Arya wasn't sure how to feel about that. She liked it. She didn't like the fear that caused it. "I'm sorry. I was thinking. What can I do for you?"

Arya didn't answer immediately. She drifted into the room instead, closing the door carefully behind her. The walls had ears. The Targaryen Queen was in residence. The Faceless Men had taught her that, too. Always be aware of who might be listening around you. Who might be hiding behind walls or faces. A closed door mightn't help much, but it was a start.

Sansa didn't object either. King's Landing had taught her the same lessons. Arya wasn't sure if she should be amused by that or not.

"You're all right?" she asked, when she thought they were safe enough. She moved back to the desk, looked down at her sister. "You were upset yesterday. You're all right now?"

Sansa blinked, and ducked her head. Shame, Arya thought. She definitely didn't like that. But Sansa lifted her chin herself after a moment. She met Arya's eyes wryly but calmly. "I am," she said, waving her hand to let Arya sit down. "I'm sorry about that. I don't ... I'm not sure what came over me. I just needed some time. I'm fine, now. I really am."

Arya wasn't so sure about that, but she let it go for the minute. She tilted her head curiously instead.

"The Imp," she said. "Did he help with that? You seem ... better, after talking with him."

And she did. The more Arya looked at her, the more she really did. Her spine had straightened. It wasn't just defiance. There was a hint of happiness in her eyes. A hint of hope.

And Sansa smiled then. In answer. Her eyes dipped shyly, but her mouth curled. 

"He did," she said, with an odd tone in her voice. "He helped." And then a frown flickered across her features, a sharp 'v' of concern, and she looked back up at Arya again. "You can't kill him, Arya. It's very important. He didn't hurt me. You mustn't kill him."

Arya nodded carefully. She'd already thought so. That didn't mean she couldn't find out why, though. It didn't mean she couldn't make sure her sister was making the right decision.

"Why?" she asked simply. Patience. Patience and preparation. Sansa deserved to have the things she wanted. All Arya needed was to know was what those were, and what she needed to do to get them for her, and how to make sure she was safe with them afterwards.

Safe with _him_ afterwards. She was beginning to wonder if that might be where this was going.

Sansa hesitated for a moment. She straightened up and drew in a breath like she was preparing to argue her case. Preparing to _fight_. Like he was something worth fighting for. Like he was something close to family.

But Sansa had grown sly since Arya had left her, all that time ago. With words, Sansa was a water dancer now. She didn't strike directly, not anymore. Not until the killing blow.

"Arya ... That boy. The smith. Are you and he ...?"

Arya stiffened, a little. An instinctive response. Gendry was off limits. Any potential threat to him, even from her family, sparked an instinct to fight in her now. She'd lost him once. He'd been sold away from her. It wasn't happening again. Not ever.

"And if we are?" she asked, and winced faintly at the chill in her own voice. She didn't want to hurt Sansa. She didn't want to fight her. A pretense to snare Littlefinger was one thing, but Arya didn't want to go back to how things had used to be between them. She'd just gotten Sansa back. She didn't want to lose _her_ again either.

But Sansa didn't react with hurt. Or offense. If anything, she seemed pleased. _Wary_ , but pleased.

"I'm happy for you," she said gently. Only mostly honestly. Those shadows of old terrors lurked in her eyes still. But she looked like she really was trying to be happy for Arya. Trying to let her have what she wanted. "Arya. He ... He seems like a good man. I know you and Jon both trust him. I'm glad for you. If he's what you want, then ... then I'm happy for you."

Arya frowned at her. "You're afraid," she said. Maybe too bluntly. Sansa flinched a little bit. "Why are you afraid? Gendry wouldn't hurt you."

Sansa grimaced. "It's not me I'm worried about," she said, and Arya blinked at her. Her sister's face creased in pain, and she leaned forwards abruptly. "Arya. You don't ... Men can be ... Marriage can be ... It's not me I'm worried about. You don't know what a man will be like until he has ... Until it's too late. Men can be different behind closed doors. I just don't want you to be hurt. I just got you back. I don't want anyone to hurt you."

Arya's frown deepened. "I won't be," she said tightly. "Gendry isn't like that. He's a good man. He would die before he hurt me." 

Then she hesitated for a second, wondering if this was really the right time to be asking for advice. She wasn't sure if Sansa was on Gendry's side, and she didn't want to show his weaknesses if she wasn't. But Sansa wanted to talk about this, and Sansa was _good_ at talking about this. Or at least better than Arya. So she risked it. 

"He's scared," she said carefully. "To hurt me. To touch me. He thinks he shouldn't be allowed. I don't want him to think like that. I don't want him to be scared."

Sansa blinked in surprise. She hesitated a bit too, leaning back to try and think about that. Arya watched her carefully. There was ... There was a hint of triumph, yes. A hint of _good_ that Gendry didn't dare touch Arya. But then it softened. Then shame flickered across her expression, guilt, and she softened to cautious concern afterwards. Arya relaxed a little bit.

"I ... I suppose I don't blame him," Sansa said carefully. "I know we're all a bit ... fearsome, I suppose. After everything. We've all lost each other too often. I can understand why he might be nervous. It can be hard to be alone amongst people who might hurt you. You want to be careful. You want to avoid giving them a reason to."

... Arya really needed to kill Cersei. Every day in Sansa's company made that more plain. The bitch queen needed to die, and soon.

But later. Gendry first. Sansa. _Then_ she could kill what was left of their enemies.

"He's not a lord," she said softly. Carefully, because on this subject in particular Sansa's experiences might only have hardened her. Arya hoped not. Sansa loved and supported Jon too much for her to really cling to that still. But she was careful anyway. "He's bastard. A commoner. He doesn't have the right to touch me. And he's very tired of being sold."

Sansa exhaled there. Old horrors, old pains. Of all of them, Sansa understood that fear of Gendry's very well.

"I don't blame him," she said tiredly. "And if I learned anything from King's Landing, it's that lords are as often monsters beneath their pretty finery as anyone else. Good men ... Good men are a lot rarer. If you find one of those, Arya ... If you find one of those, you need to keep him." She hesitated, and then reached over the desk to touch Arya's hand gently. "If you trust this Gendry Waters, Arya, then I am happy for you. Truly. If he's the one you want, then Jon and I will find a way to make it happen." She tried a smile, a wry little flicker. "You're not the one we would send for a political marriage anyway. Allies tend to get nervous when their brides try to stab them."

Arya snorted faintly. Hiding the warmth, the happiness. Tucking it away. "I wouldn't _try_ to stab anyone," she said. "If they needed to be stabbed, they would be. Though I could poison them either. If you wanted a little less mess."

Sansa laughed at that, in that quick, guilty way she laughed when she thought she shouldn't. She smiled across the desk at Arya, and held her hand tight for a moment. Arya let her. For a long, almost comfortable minute, she let her.

And then: "Are you going to marry the Imp, then?" she asked, soft and curious, and Sansa's hand flinched in hers. Arya caught it. She squeezed it gently in reassurance.

"What?" Sansa stammered. "I mean ... Why do you ...?"

"You were talking about good men," Arya said plainly. "You were talking about finding one and then keeping him. And you're happier since you talked to him. You were crying on that walkway, and now you're happier. You think he's your good man. You want to keep him, don't you? You want to marry Tyrion Lannister."

Sansa stared at her in open fear. The horrors, the terrors, they swarmed all the way up behind her eyes. And then she _straightened_. Then she drew herself up and lifted her chin high. Ready to fight. Ready to take what was hers and kill anyone who tried to stop her. 

Arya thrilled at the sight of it. She felt a fierce rush of pride and kinship for her sister.

"I do," Sansa said, with the cold, firm clarity of Lady Stark. "I want him. I trust him. I've had enough of monsters, Arya. I want a man I _know_ I can trust, a man I know is good and kind and strong. Tyrion is that man. I will have him or I will have no one. And Tyrion ... he can make it happen. I know he can. He said he would find a way, and he will. I believe that of him."

And Arya would let her have him. Just for that. Just for that fierceness and that will. Anyone who could bring that back for her sister was already worth something in her eyes. 

But she had to be sure. Her family had been hurt too much, and Tyrion was still a Lannister. Arya had to be sure.

"He doesn't seem like someone who could fight very well," she said mildly. She didn't entirely believe it. Anyone could fight, given enough motivation, and the dwarf had certainly survived things that would have killed a lot of people. But she had to be sure. She had to know what it was her sister saw in him.

"You know better than that," Sansa said, eyeing her coolly. "Wars can be won with words as well as swords. Surely Littlefinger taught you that. But Tyrion can fight the other way too. It was his planning that kept King's Landing out of Stannis' hands. He fought on that field and was wounded for it. And he's fought for me too." She paused, there. She paused, and Arya watched in delighted curiosity as a hint of something wicked slid across her features. A hint of the old Sansa, the one who would sometimes deign to play pranks with her. "He ... You might like this, actually. He once threatened to castrate Joffrey for me."

Arya blinked. Nearly spluttered. " _What_?" she asked, delighted and incredulous. Sansa nodded happily.

"I know. I was terrified back then. It was our wedding feast, and all I could think at the time was that he was drunk and he was violent. It scared me. But he never touched me. Later. He promised me he'd never touch me unless I wanted it, and he never did. He keeps his promises. So when I look back on it now ..." She smiled. "He told the king, to his face, that if he tried to touch me he would be fucking his own bride with a wooden cock. He had a knife in his hand and everything. In front of the entire wedding hall, he threatened the king to make him leave me alone. And Joffrey did."

... _Well_. Arya sat back in her chair, a distant, lazy sort of admiration floating through her. Well then. Maybe this particular Lannister _might_ be worth something after all.

"So he's not a coward, then," she said thoughtfully. "He has some honour, and he's not a coward. He'll protect you when he has to."

Sansa nodded. "He always did," she said, and there was something softer in it now. Something tired and warm and hopeful. "I didn't notice it at the time. I was scared of everyone, of everything, and he was still just a Lannister to me then. But he tried to protect me. Even from his own family. He put that cloak around my shoulders on our wedding day, he promised me it meant protection, and he meant it. I think he's the only man who wasn't family who ever did. Or one of a very, very few, at least."

Arya looked at her curiously. "Do you love him?" she asked. "Is it just marriage, just protection? Or do you love him as well?"

Sansa blinked at her. She looked confused for a second. Like the question didn't entirely make sense. Arya felt a twinge in her chest at the sight of it. She remembered her sister when they were children, remembered her starry-eyed with stories of love and romance. This Sansa didn't look like she remembered that. She didn't look like she could even imagine it anymore.

"Love is protection," Sansa said softly. "Love is family. Love is someone you trust to protect you, and someone you want to protect in turn. Love is the people you would fight for, the people you can go to when you're wounded and know they'll keep you safe. Love is the person you can stand beside in a room full of enemies and know that they will guard you as you guard them. Love _is_ protection. Love is trust. Love is the person you know you're safe beside. Love is the person you look at, and you feel _light_ , because ..."

"Because they're your family," Arya finished, thinking of Jon, of Bran, of Sansa. Thinking of a desperate promise she'd once made to Gendry, a promise he hadn't been able to believe, but a promise she had _meant_. A promise she'd meant to her bones. "Because they're yours. They're your family. And you trust them."

"Yes," Sansa said, beaming at her. "Yes, exactly. Love is family. Love is trust. And ... I trust Tyrion, Arya. I look at him, and I feel safe. I feel light. I feel like I can laugh, like I can tease, like I can be weak. I look at him and I know he will never hurt me. I look at him and I feel ... I feel like I'm not ruined. Like it doesn't matter how ugly I am, how scarred I am, how weak I am. He loves me anyway. He promised to, and he never breaks his promises."

Arya nodded slowly. "So," she said. "You're going to marry him then. You want him. You're going to fight for him?"

Her sister nodded. Her face settled into grim, determined lines, and she straightened in her chair once again. "I am," she said. "I'm not going to abandon him again. I did it once, I left him to be torn apart by his family. I left because I was scared, and we both paid for that. I won't make that mistake again. I'm going to win him. I'm going to bring him to me, and find a way to keep him safe. To keep _both_ of us safe. He's my family. I will never let my family fall again."

And she was every inch the Stark saying it. The Lady of Winterfell, the Lady of the North. Arya was minded of Nymeria suddenly. She was minded of her wolf, pledging herself to the protection of her pack. She wondered how Tyrion dealt with wolves. With pack. He seemed a scrappy little thing. More used to fighting for himself. Well, it made sense. His family wasn't anything to rely upon. She wondered how he would handle a real one.

Are you ready, little lion? she thought lightly. Do you know you're pack already?

She wondered, too, if Gendry did. If he knew. If maybe she should tell him, fiercely enough that he might actually listen this time.

"I'll help you then," she said, bringing her focus back to Sansa. To her battered, wounded sister, with steel and hope back in her eyes. "Anything you need. I'll keep your lion safe, sister. I'll make sure no one takes him from you."

Even if he betrayed them, she'd make sure of that. He was one of theirs now. Only they had the right to kill him.

And if anyone tried to argue with that. The Dragon Queen, perhaps. Or his own sister. Well. Daenerys was Jon's now, and had earned her own place to live or die beside them. And Cersei had been on Arya's list for a very, very long time. It would be no hardship to find one more reason to deal with her at last.

Sansa blinked at her. Her lip curled, a strange, careful sort of smile. "I wonder if he'd find that reassuring," she wondered quietly. "Please don't scare him, Arya. He's been hurt a lot. Like your Gendry. He's scared. He doesn't show it. He's very good at acting like he isn't. But he is. Please be gentle with him. I want him to want to stay with me."

Arya laughed softly. "If he really wants you," she said, "he won't scare that easily. He's threatened kings to their face, remember? He stands and argues with dragons. I don't think he'll run away, your lion. But I'll be gentle with him. For your sake. I promise."

As gentle as she could be, anyway. She did need to talk to the man himself first. A girl had to be sure of her target. She had to be sure he was worthy. But Sansa wasn't very forgiving either these days. Not after everything. If Tyrion Lannister could manage to keep her trust through all of that, if she could still look at him and think him _good_ , then Arya doubted he had all that much to worry about. 

They were getting very good at recognising enemies, they Starks. If Tyrion could survive the scrutiny of one, he could likely survive the regard of all.

"Thank you," Sansa said quietly. Meaning it, too. Soft and warm, and thankful on her lion's behalf. "And, Arya? Don't call him the Imp. Please. He's been mocked enough. I had to watch all of King's Landing sneer at him for that. I had to watch Joffrey braying in his face. He was better than _any_ of them, and they were laughing at him. I won't have that here. He's stood for us. Against his own family, he's stood for us. I will not have anyone mock him in my house. He's earned at least that."

Arya blinked, and nodded slowly. "All right," she said. Because it was fair, really. "I won't mock him. He's going to be family. I won't hurt him."

Tease him, maybe. As Jon teased him. But not mock him. Sansa was right. He'd stood for them. That earned him better than that.

"All right," her sister said softly. In relief. In happiness. She smiled tentatively at Arya. "You, ah. You should go talk to your Gendry then. You can ... You can send him to me, if you like. Or Jon. If he needs to know he's safe. You can send him to us. We'll tell him for you."

Arya blinked, and tried to hide her reaction to that. Tried to push it down, tried to keep it from stinging her eyes. 

"I'm not sure yet," she managed carefully. "We're not ... I'm not there yet. He doesn't believe me. I want him to believe me first. Then ... Then I'll send him to you. Jon is working on him. He trusts Jon. But I think he would want to hear it from you. You're ... You're sort of the scary one, these days. I think he's afraid of you most."

Sansa ... didn't look like she knew how to deal with that. Arya wouldn't either, she supposed. She was the killer. She should be scarier than Sansa.

But it wasn't violence that Gendry was scared of. He knew how to fight. He knew what to do when battle came. It was _rules_ he was scared of. Rules, and lordship, and people looking at him like they knew he didn't belong there. Like they knew he'd stolen something he had no right to. Sansa was good at that. That was her world. The rules and the ladyship and the ways to cut people down without ever drawing a sword. Jon wasn't like that. Jon was a bastard too. Bran these days was just weird, to be honest. But Sansa. Sansa was a _lady_. Sansa was the one Gendry was afraid of. Sansa and Daenerys. They were the ones he needed to know wouldn't hurt him, or sell him, or send him away.

And, huh. Maybe Tyrion Lannister could help her with that. Jon. Ser Davos. And maybe Sansa's lion as well.

Because winter was here. And packs looked out for their own.

"We'll fix it," she said. Suddenly, by the way Sansa jumped slightly, but Arya ignored that. She leaned forward, touched her sister's hand again. Sansa softened slightly at her touch. Sansa reached out and held her hand right back. Arya smiled fiercely at her. "For both of them. Your lion and my Gendry. We'll fix it. We'll see to it they're safe. The pack survives. Right?"

And Sansa blinked, and Sansa smiled. The wolf in winter. The Lady of Winterfell.

"Yes," she said, with pride and surety. "We'll make sure of it."


	4. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow is stirred from war preparations (and brooding) by Ser Davos, and stumbles onto Arya's rather public declaration of affection towards Gendry Waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To warn in advance, I have no idea a) how to run a war in a medieval frozen kingdom pressed on two sides, and b) how geography and travel times work in Westeros. I'm making this up wholesale.

The ravens were still coming in from Castle Black and Last Hearth. Survivors from Eastwatch were still filtering in to both points. There weren't many, only a tiny few, and at this point there weren't likely to be more. But Tormund had made it, at least. He'd come in to Castle Black from the wrong side of the Wall, but he _had_ made it in. Jon couldn't help but feel a burst of joy and relief at the news.

It was ironic, perhaps, that the path he'd taken had probably been the safer one this time. The north side of the Wall was now the good one. 

The dead were focused southwards.

The ravens from Last Hearth and the northernmost homesteads put the Night King's army spreading southwards from Eastwatch along the coast of the Bay of Seals. Jon didn't know yet whether to be relieved or horrified by that. He'd thought they might turn westwards, towards Castle Black, and destroy the Wall once and for all. Instead they seemed to be aiming for Last Hearth first and then towards Winterfell. They were moving slowly, very slowly, but they were moving _implacably_. They didn't stop. They didn't eat. They didn't sleep. They were moving inexorably southwards, and only fire and dragonglass would stop them.

But it was the Night King that terrified him most. The Night King and ... and Viserion. Or what was left of Viserion. An undead dragon. Gods preserve them. Sightings of them were only intermittent, and slowed further by the flight time of ravens. Even Bran was having trouble. A dragon gave that creature far too much mobility. He could outstrip his army by a huge distance.

Or he could turn back. He could leave them to march south and _he_ could handle the Wall. Jon had already sent ravens to Castle Black and the Tower. They needed to keep watch. They needed to gather the remnants of the Night Watch and be ready to move south. Jon had no idea where the Night King had vanished to or what he was planning on doing, but it only made sense to destroy the enemies behind him before he turned his face to the final push south. This was a war of annihilation. It only made sense to destroy everything in his path and leave no island of potential hope behind him. The Wall's magic had denied him for centuries. He would want it rendered down to dust and shards. Jon believed that.

They were committed now. The dead and the living alike. From this point on, the Night King's destruction was the only salvation any of them could hope to have.

He should be talking to Daenerys. He knew that. The news of Viserion had hurt her, very badly, and with her child in the Night King's hands, she was their only hope of fighting the creature himself directly. He needed to talk to her. He knew he did.

It was just ... it was hard. It was so hard.

He didn't know how to be a Targaryen. He didn't know if he _wanted_ to be a Targaryen. All his life, it had been the Stark name he had aspired to. To be Ned Stark's son. To earn his _place_ as Ned Stark's son. His father. His family. To learn ... To learn it was all a lie, that his _father_ had lied ...

And he'd been going to tell him. Before he went south. He'd promised they'd talk about Jon's mother when he got back. He'd been going to tell him. That was ... That was a comfort, at least. Sort of. His father hadn't wanted to lie to him. Everyone else, apparently, but not him. His father had hoped to one day tell him the truth. 

Or no. Not his father. His _uncle_. His uncle by blood. And by the same measure, Daenerys was his _aunt_. He'd ... He'd slept with his own aunt.

He didn't know how to reconcile that. Either of them. That his father was not his father. That his siblings were not his siblings, even less so than they had been before. That the woman ... the woman he loved ... 

His blood said one thing, his blood and Bran's visions and the papers Sam had found, but his heart said another. His history, his heart, his whole life. Everything he'd ever been or hoped to be. He didn't _want_ to be a Targaryen. He didn't want to be the heir to the Iron fucking Throne. He _wanted_ ...

He wanted his family. The ones that were left, the ones he'd just got back. And he wanted Daenerys. He wanted to love her. He wanted to be _allowed_.

And it was all useless anyway. It was all pointless. The Night King was coming. The dead were at the door. He didn't have time to be thinking about these things, to be sitting up at night wondering who he was and who he had the right to love. He was King in the North. Whatever else he was, for the moment he was that, and he had a _duty_ to perform. His people needed him. Before anything else, he had a duty towards them.

... He wished Maester Aemon were here. It was an odd thought, and a complicated one now. But he did. He wished the old man were here. He had a vague thought that his predicament might have amused him.

"Lad," Davos said, distracting him gently. Jon startled, looked up to find the old knight leaning on the doorframe, watching him sympathetically. Davos came a few steps further into the room, now that he had Jon's attention. "Come on, lad," he said. "There's no point sitting thinking about it. You'll only work yourself into knots. These things will sort themselves out. We've got a war to fight and defenses to prepare. Come on. Let's get some work done, hmm?"

Jon blinked, at the echo of his own thoughts as much as anything, and then he laughed breathlessly. "Aye," he said. "Aye, you're right. Win the war first. We'll sort the rest out afterwards."

Duty. Before anything else, duty. Both Ned Stark and Aemon Targaryen would have approved of that. 

Davos watched him carefully as he stood. Fearfully, nearly. As though he might break. As though Jon were fragile, and might shatter apart on top of him. He didn't say anything, though. Jon felt a rush of gratitude towards him. He was the sort of man you could draw strength from, Davos Seaworth. He seemed to have an endless supply of it.

"... What needs doing, then?" he asked, standing straight and looking towards the man as a Commander ought to. Well. King. Same difference, really. At least at the minute. "From what everyone tells me, there's not a lot can be done to speed anything up. Supplies are coming in from the North and Dragonstone as fast as they can. Until we've managed to get everyone outfitted and arranged as best we can, there's not a lot we can do. It's all craftsmen and quartermasters and grain stores now. Not a lot of use for kings."

Because they couldn't extend themselves. They couldn't march. They didn't have the resources. They tired, the dead didn't. As horrible as it was, they had to hunker down, consolidate themselves, and let the Night King come to them. It was a siege the size of a kingdom. They had to set the North up as a second Wall, and hope to somehow stop the dead in their tracks. 

They'd have some flexibility once the dead were closer. Daenerys' Dothraki, now that they were outfitted and beginning to adapt to the cold, would allow them a lot of manoeuvrability nearer in. They were good at hard, fast attacks. They had some hope to whittle the army down before it actually reached any of the fortifications. The dragons allowed similar, though they'd have to worry about Viserion and the Night King first. They had options, once the dead were closer, and they'd have to plan those more concretely soon enough. 

But right now, right this minute, it was mostly waiting. It was supplies and armourers and training. And kings, reassuring as they might be, were bugger all use for that.

Which was unfortunate, really. It allowed him far too much time to brood.

"Well, you could check in on a few people," Davos said, with a sort of blunt, gentle censure. "Maybe you're not all that much use practically speaking, but you could let them know you appreciate their efforts. There's an army of the dead coming to knock on their door. I'm sure there's quite a few who'd like to know that their king is up and about and ready to do something about it." A pause, to let that sink in, and then he smiled gently. "You might like to start with the smiths. They've been working day and night to get enough weapons out, and dragonglass is a new and tricky thing for them to be working with. Maybe you could drop by and say hello."

Jon flushed faintly. Aye. It was more than a fair point. Maybe he could at that.

"Come on, lad," Davos said, smiling wryly and holding out an arm to gesture him through the door. "Let's go see to your people, aye?"

And not before time. But Davos was kind, and didn't actually say that part out loud.

Winterfell was a hive of activity outside the confines of the Maester's chambers. Between the armies they'd gathered, there was practically a new town encamped outside the walls. A new city, really. Daenerys' forces were still coming up from the south, and the ones already here were having to give the newcomers hard, fast lessons on living in the North. Supplies were the largest problem. With Cersei still blockading a lot of the south, it had taken Tyrion and Sansa a significant amount of work between them to get things moving in the right direction. 

Though Euron Greyjoy heading east to pick up Cersei's new army had actually helped, at least temporarily. It allowed them leeway to bring things by sea. They'd pay for that, later. If they survived the first war at all, they'd pay for allowing it. But that was a worry for later. They could only fight one war at a time.

Jon and Davos made their way down to the courtyard where they'd set up the bulk of the smiths and armourers. Jon was surprised by how many people stopped them or nodded to them along the way, inclined their heads to him with a heartfelt 'your grace'. He was surprised, too, how many looked cheered when he nodded back. Even after all this time, it still surprised how much his kingship apparently _meant_ to people. How much it apparently inspired them, even in spite of complications like Daenerys Targaryen.

Though she'd said that, too. Daenerys. And Sansa. And Davos. Lady Mormont. Even Tyrion, in passing a time or two. Kings might not be good for the practical, but apparently it helped people to know just who it was they were fighting for. 

Jon grimaced faintly. He paused in the shadow of a walkway, looking around him and realising just how much he might have been failing his people in his confusion, his personal pain and grief. There wasn't time for it. There really, really wasn't. These people needed a king, and they needed him now. The dead were coming. He owed them better than to hide in his room and let them fall out of personal doubt.

"It's all right, lad," Davos said quietly. Standing beside him, touching his elbow lightly. Knowing, somehow, exactly what he was thinking and why. "You're doing all right. Everyone stumbles sometimes. Everyone has their own doubts. All that matters is that you get back up afterwards, and do what needs doing in spite of them."

And he would know, Jon thought. He'd followed one king through ruin after ruin, grief after grief. If anyone knew how to keep going, it was most definitely Ser Davos Seaworth.

Before he could mention it, though, before he could fumble his way to some awkward, belated apology and gratitude, Davos turned his head. Davos looked out into the courtyard past Jon, a flash of surprise and then worry in his face, and Jon turned around to see Gendry Waters standing frozen and alarmed besides a water trough, and Jon's sister stalking towards him with a ferocious look in her eyes.

"Oh dear," Davos murmured, shifting half a step forward without seeming to notice it. "That doesn't look good, does it."

And Jon would have agreed with him, Jon was already moving to try and intercede, when Arya suddenly saw something in Gendry's face. Some intention to move, or to try and run away. Arya saw it, and Arya abruptly abandoned all pretense to dart forwards the last few steps and throw her arms forcefully and publicly around his neck.

Gendry stumbled backwards, one arm instinctively locking around her while the other fumbled back to grab the trough. He curled around her through his shock, tucked her in against his chest to try and shield her from any response. He was flailing, stunned and dismayed by her actions, but he moved to shield her anyway. There was an agony of terror on his face, but he tucked her down and moved to take any potential violence on himself. 

Jon stopped, at that. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the pair. Davos, slower and happier, stopped as well at his side.

" _Arya_ ," Gendry hissed, his voice low and terrified as he swept his eyes around the courtyard. He didn't seem to see Jon. He and Davos still had some shelter from the walkway above. The lack of her immediate family didn't seem to reassure Gendry much. "Not _here_ , Arya. For gods' sake, not here!"

He tried to pry her away. When people stared at them but no one moved immediately to try and reprimand them, he tried to lean back and pull her arms from around his neck. Arya allowed it, sort of. But only enough to grab his arms in turn, and glare fiercely into his face. 

"Why not here?" she asked fiercely. "I told you, Gendry. It doesn't matter. You're my family. It doesn't matter who sees. You've nothing to be afraid of!"

"Ah child," Davos whispered, watching them. He grimaced almost perfectly in time with Gendry.

"It _does_ matter," the smith hissed angrily. It wasn't anger in his eyes, though. It was fear, and old pain. "We're not safe yet, Arya. I haven't earned it yet. You're a lady, a lady of Winterfell, and I ..."

"You're my _family_ ," Arya cut him off, and Jon straightened a bit at the sound of it. At the ragged, fearsome edge to it. That hadn't been there before. Arya hadn't let it. She was so remote now. So cold and careful. She didn't show her weakness anymore. But she did now. There was a savagery in her voice, a well of pain and desperation and ferocious intent. Enough that even Gendry faltered in the face of it.

"Arya ..." he said helplessly. She shook her head. She held him fiercely by the arms.

"No," she said. "No, not anymore. I'm not letting it anymore. Any of it. You're my family, and I am _not_ losing you again. Not for anything as stupid as some rules. I lost you. I lost you, and you nearly died. So many times. And Ser Davos saved you, like he saved Jon, and if he needs anything, _anything_ from me, he can have it, but I'm not losing you again. Not now. You're here. You're with me. You're my family, and I'm not losing you again."

The whole courtyard was silent now. The crunch of footsteps in the snow and the clang of hammers on metal and glass had fallen still. All of Winterfell seemed to be staring at them. Gendry knew it. Jon could see the blind terror of him in the face of it. But it was Arya he looked at it. It was Arya he stared at in longing and desperation.

"I'm not your family," he said quietly, with aching, splintered grief. "Arya. I'm not your family. I'm some bastard from King's Landing. I'm not yours."

And Jon straightened, instinctively, in denial there. In refusal. Davos too beside him. But it was Arya who refuted it most strongly, and almost calmly too. Almost serenely, fierce and firm and utterly sure.

"I don't care if you're a bastard," she said solidly. "Jon's a bastard, and Jon's a king. The dead are coming. Things like that don't matter anymore." 

Not ... not entirely true, Jon thought. Not anymore. But it had been true for a long time, and Gendry didn't need to know the other part just yet. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Not to Arya. Not to the North, either. They'd called him king thinking him a bastard. And Arya had always called him brother, no matter who his mother, or now his father, might have been.

She went on, now. More gently. Trying to reassure him. Trying to soothe him, awkwardly, and reel him in.

"It doesn't matter, Gendry," she said, and she was almost pleading. "You're my family. I _choose_ you for my family. I promised you on that road, and I meant it. And they'll let me. You know they will. You trust Jon. You know him, you know what he's like. He won't care who you are. Bran won't care either. And Sansa ... Sansa will let me. She told me. You were there for me when no one else was. You were there for me when they couldn't be. They know who you are. They know what you're worth to me. You can be my family. If you want to be. If you want _me_."

Gendry pressed his lips together desperately. He looked down, looked away. His hands were knotted in fists by his sides, beneath where her fingers bit into his sleeves. He was shaking, and Jon wished, fiercely and suddenly, that he knew how to shield him from this. That he'd known before this, that he'd been able to shield him before Arya came. She was too blunt, his sister. Even now. She was too fierce a force at times.

"I wanted to earn it," Gendry whispered. Looking back at her, finally. Raising his eyes to meet her bewildered expression. "I wanted to earn it, Arya. Honestly. The way Ser Davos earned it. I wanted to give my hammer and my skills to Jon, to your family, and to _prove_ ... to prove that I might be worthy of it. Of you. All of you. I didn't want you to just give it to me. I wanted to _earn_ it."

Davos closed his eyes beside Jon. "Oh lad," he said tiredly, and with a desperate thread of pride. "Ah son."

Arya only stared at him. Bewildered. Like it didn't quite make sense. "It's family," she said. "You're family, Gendry. You don't have to earn family."

It went in like a punch to Jon's gut. He and Gendry flinched in unison. And she meant it. Jon knew she meant it. She always had. Arya had never cared that he was a bastard. She didn't care now that her father had been lying all their life. She didn't care whether Jon was a Snow or a Stark or a Targaryen. She cared that he was _family_. By her lights, in her eyes. He was family, and that was all that had ever mattered to her.

You don't have to earn family, she said, and alone of anyone Jon had ever met, he knew she meant it truly.

And that, more than anything else, decided him now. Here, with this. With someone else, another bastard Arya wanted to let in. Another bastard Arya loved, no matter who he was and whose blood ran in his veins. Jon knew Gendry's terrors all too well. He knew his fears and his shames and his desperate, useless hopes. And Arya was right, too. The dead were coming. The rest just didn't matter anymore. The rest they could sort out afterwards.

He strode forwards across the courtyard, Davos following him at a fast clip. He strode out into the middle of the hush and the interest and the expectant terror. More than one person stirred at the sight of him. The king. Arya's brother. The courtyard stirred, and Arya and Gendry turned to face him. Gendry blanched in terror. Arya moved herself immediately and defensively in front of him. But Jon was beyond that. In this one matter, he knew exactly what he both wanted and needed to see done.

He stopped in front of them. Gendry had pulled Arya back beside him. As much to face his fate himself as to protect her, but a little of that as well. Jon loved him a little for that. There and then. Holding his eyes, knowing the terror there, and the courage too. He loved him.

"... Do you love him?" he asked, looking sideways to Arya. Her first. Always now, his family first. Before anything else, he would know her heart in truth. His sisters had suffered too much to do otherwise. "Really and truly, Arya. Do you love him?"

He didn't doubt her, though. She'd never have forced this if she hadn't loved the man first.

She raised her chin, the fierce, savage poise of a killer. "I do," she said. Proudly, as the woman she had become. And hopefully, as the sister he remembered. "Jon. I _do_."

Jon nodded. He'd known. He hadn't doubted. So he turned again to Gendry. And he asked him that same question.

"And you," he said. "Do you love her? My sister. Before any other questions. Any other concerns. If there was nothing else in the world but that. Do you love her?"

Gendry's breath was ragged. His hand was tight around hers. There was nothing in his eyes but terror. Hopelessness. Despair. He met Jon's eyes, though. He held his head high. And he nodded. Wordlessly, unable to speak. But he nodded.

And Jon smiled at him. Sadly, tiredly, and with a quiet sort of joy.

"Then she's right," he said, loudly enough for the courtyard to hear. "Arya's right. There's no need for proving after that. But if there were. Even if just for your own sake, you needed to know you'd done right. You have proved yourself, Gendry. To me and to my family. You came north to fight with us when half the south would sooner see us dead. You came with me beyond the Wall. You saved my life and the life of every man with me when you sent word back to Daenerys. You're here now, you're trying to arm us all against the dead who're marching south even as we're speaking. You have proved yourself, to me and to all of us."

He stepped forward a pace. Moved forwards to touch his hand to Gendry's shoulder, while Gendry stared at him in blind shock.

"But more than that," Jon said, looking sideways at Arya again. "More importantly than that. You proved yourself to _her_. She wouldn't love you if you hadn't. She was right. You were there for her when I couldn't be. You were her family when she had no other. And for that alone. No matter who our fathers are, no matter happens now. For that _alone_ , I would gladly call you my family."

Arya smiled at him for that. She beamed at him the way she had when he'd given her her sword. Gendry just stared. Helplessly, desperately. In open wonder. Jon stepped in hesitantly. Carefully, giving him a chance to flinch away if he needed to. When Gendry didn't, Jon tugged him, briefly and carefully, into a hug.

"You have my leave to court my sister," he said, when he'd stepped back again. Arya made a noise, and Jon grinned faintly. "Not that you needed it, maybe. Arya's choices are her own. But you do have my leave. If the Night Watch taught me anything, Gendry, it's that it's the ones who stand with you while the dead are howling 'round your door that matter. The Night King's coming. If we die tomorrow, I'll be glad to die with you as my brother."

" _Thank you_ ," Arya said. Barreling forwards to grab him around the middle in a hug. "Jon. _Jon_. Thank you."

"... Yes," Gendry managed. A stumbling, dazed, bewildered sort of agreement. "Thank you. You ... Your grace. My King. Thank you."

And _there_ was an irony, Jon thought. From Robert Baratheon's son to Rhaegar Targaryen's. Not that Gendry knew that. Not that it _mattered_ , maybe. Rhaegar's son, or Ned Stark's, that wasn't what mattered here. Not with this. It didn't matter whose blood was whose. Sometimes, that wasn't what family meant.

Family was the people who stood beside you. Family was the people you loved, and no matter what way you loved them. 

And at the end of it, if they all died tomorrow, maybe that was all that mattered.

"... I'll leave you to it," he said, stepping back to let them fall together again. To let them hold hands tight between them, and stand side by side in front of him and all the world. "I need to go speak with some people. Daenerys. And everyone else fighting for us as well. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I don't know how many of us are going to survive. But I'm glad for you. I hope both of you find some happiness first."

Davos fell into step beside him as he turned. He smiled at Gendry first, a warm, fatherly smile of encouragement. He smiled at Arya too, more wryly, inclining his head in her direction. And then he fell into step beside Jon, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tipped casually towards the sky.

"Well then," he said, with definitely no amusement. "I'll admit, that was a bit more of a 'hello' than I was expecting. A fine way to inspire people, and gain some family in the process. But if it works, I suppose." He paused, and slanted a look in Jon's direction. "So. Daenerys, you said?"

"Oh, shut up," Jon said, smiling at him. 

And turned and headed towards Daenerys' chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, Jon has just handily pre-empted everybody, and potentially made a godawful personal and political mess whenever the Baratheon/Targaryen secrets come out. But, hey. He's Jon Snow, and he wouldn't be himself, a Stark, _or_ a Targaryen if he didn't go around making godawful political messes for love and family (see also: Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, Ned Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen).
> 
> Also, yes, Arya absolutely considers Ser Davos to have earned himself at least two free assassinations of his choice. Which, ah. Which Melisandre may wish to take note of -_-;


	5. Ragged Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon comes to speak with Daenerys, and leaves Tyrion to break the news of his bargains to Sansa. Some of them, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion/Sansa again. And, um. I'm not sure I should have posted this yet. It came out all ragged and in a rush. But it's 4:00am, so why not?

After the weight of their discussion, Tyrion felt the silence between him and his Queen grow warm and companionable. He let himself settle back in his seat, a wave of lassitude flowing through him. Relief alone, for once, not wine. Though relief was apparently quite the heady vintage. He might try it without a wine chaser more often.

For her part, Daenerys seemed happy enough to keep her silence and his company. She turned her eyes to the fire, watching the flicker of the flames with her head laid back against her chair. Peace and companionship, he thought. Such rare and lovely commodities, these days.

Fragile, though. All too easily broken. It seemed they'd only been resting a moment before the knock sounded on the door and startled both of them upright in their seats. 

It was a careful little thing, though, that knock. Almost hesitant. Well now. And who might that be?

Daenerys straightened in her seat, a hint of apprehension flickering over her features before it was rapidly subsumed into a calm, regal mask. She'd had the same thought as Tyrion, then. That, or she'd just been waiting for one particular person for some time now. Tyrion waited for her nod of permission before he slid down off his seat and ambled with deliberate slowness towards the door. Well. It wouldn't do for royalty to rush, would it?

He wasn't surprised when he opened the door to find Jon Snow standing on the other side of it. Tyrion angled the door to hide Daenerys for a brief moment, while he quickly gauged the man's expression. It wasn't angry, though, or cold, or anything else his Queen might have dreaded. It was sheepish, instead. And maybe hopeful.

Well then. Perhaps there was hope for this alliance yet.

Davos directed a hint of a longsuffering smile at him as Tyrion opened the door all the way, stepping back to allow the erstwhile King in the North into the room. Tyrion felt relatively free in grimacing companionably back at him. Davos' king had eyes only for Daenerys. And Daenerys, standing slowly to her feet behind him, had eyes only for Jon Snow.

"I, ah," the bastard of Winterfell started awkwardly. "I wondered if I might have a word, your grace? Um. Privately, if that would be all right with you?"

Daenerys eyed him coolly. She'd not let go of her wariness just yet. Tyrion didn't blame her. Jon's reaction to the knowledge of his parentage had _not_ been encouraging, and in his case that coldness might be a very potent political as well as an emotional threat. But Jon did look apologetic now. He looked tired, and warm, and tentatively hopeful. And Daenerys, almost in spite of herself, relaxed minutely in response. She turned her eyes to Tyrion, and nodded careful agreement.

"Would you like me to wait outside, your grace?" Tyrion asked anyway. She'd given him hope and comfort a bare few minutes before, a fierce and implicit promise of protection, and he would hardly do less now. Daenerys smiled at him, and shook her head. 

"It's all right," she said softly. "My bloodriders are outside. I'll send for you if I need anything."

And there was more than a hint of censure in that. Even threat, a little bit. His Queen had not at all let down the last of her guard, and she was content for them to know it. Jon didn't balk at it, though. He stood calm and patient in the face of it. Like a man who'd made his decisions.

"Come on," Davos said to Tyrion quietly. Looking at the pair of them, a look of patient fondness in his eyes. "Let's leave the royals to it, eh? I'm sure they've got a lot to talk about."

"Aye," said Jon Snow, glancing down at Tyrion wryly. "If you don't mind. I think we do at that."

Tyrion glanced between them one more time. Just to be sure. But Jon only smiled patiently back at him, and Daenerys simply raised her chin imperiously as if to ask what he was waiting for. And, well. They would have to sort it out sooner or later, wouldn't they?

"All right," he said, spreading his hands in resigned acceptance. "But please don't kill each other, hmm? We've an army of the dead on the way, I'm not able for that sort of mess. Please."

"Not to worry," said Daenerys, with a faint lift to her lip. "I'm sure we can manage to speak to each other without resorting to violence."

"Or wolves or dragons either," Jon agreed pleasantly. "Later, sers. If you please."

And Tyrion sighed, and followed Davos out the door. "On your heads be it," was all he said. But he was smiling as he did so. There was a hint of a spring to his step as the door slid closed behind him. He'd known Jon would come around. Or he'd hoped for it, at least.

"They'll be all right," Davos reassured, when it was just them and two stone-faced Dothraki in the corridor. The old knight had a bit of a bounce in his heels as well, when Tyrion looked at him. "He's had a rough time of it these past few days. It's not the easiest sort of thing for a lad like that to accept. But hope will out. It's too dark these days for anything else."

Tyrion snorted. "I'm not sure about that," he said, with the cynicism of long habit. Then he tipped his head back and let it go with a sigh. "But gods, I hope so. If love is only ever good for one thing, let it be good for that. We need all the hope we can get right now."

Hope, and stability, and strength as well. And love might buy them that. They just needed half a chance.

Davos made a noise in his turn. "The gods can do what they like," he said gruffly. "I'll put my trust in good hearts and a little hard work, myself. And we've got those. All we've got to do now is hope that it's enough."

Tyrion squinted up at him. "I can't tell if that was romantic or pragmatic," he commented idly. "And I've a feeling those two should be easier to tell apart."

The old knight looked down at him curiously. "Not really," he said. "Love is hard work. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn't had any. Not the real stuff." A slight pause, and then he smiled tiredly, a shadow of old joys and old griefs in his eyes. "But it's worth it, in the end. That's the point. Anything worth having is worth working for. No matter what you end up paying for it, to know love is worth it in the end."

And Tyrion looked down at that. He had to. A thousand things squirmed and writhed in his chest. Tysha and Shae. Davos himself, the son he'd loved dead by Tyrion's hand. Tommen and Marcella. Cersei. Jaime. His father. He wasn't sure if that was true. That love was always worth it. That it was worth the prices you had to pay. He didn't think he could ever be sure of that. The only certain thing love had ever taught him was to be wary of it.

But he thought of Jon and Daenerys too. He thought of hope, as slim and desperate as it might be. And he thought ... he thought of Sansa. Of something that might or might not be love. 

Of something that might be worth working for either way.

"... Would you excuse me, my lord?" he asked absently. Glancing back up at Davos, and flinching slightly at the knowing look in the man's eyes. He coughed uneasily, and tried again. "Pardon me. There's ... There's something I need to see to. If you wouldn't mind."

Davos smiled slightly. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'm only the advisor of a king. I'm sure I'll find something to do, even if said king happens to be otherwise occupied at the minute." His smile widened, briefly, and then gently slipped away. He looked down at Tyrion with what might have been honest sympathy. "Go see to your matter, my lord. Now seems to be the time for it. We might be running out of chances soon enough."

And yes, he clearly knew _exactly_ what sort of matter Tyrion had in mind. But he was gentle about it, and to be honest right now Tyrion would take what he could get. He bowed, hastily, offered some words of gratitude, and then all but fled. 

He slowed, though, before he'd made it all that far. He slowed, and stopped, in a thankfully empty bit of corridor. Something tightened in his chest. Not ... not fear, exactly. Not dread. But wariness, certainly. A shake crept back into his hands, the way it had when he'd knocked on his Queen's door. For similar reasons. He was gambling wildly on the two of them. Daenerys and Sansa. Daenerys had paid off, as most gambles on her tended to do. But Sansa ...

He'd won them a space to work in. By his Queen's grace, he'd won them some time to try and work it out, to see what they wanted between them and how much it was possible to get. He didn't know, though, if that would be enough for Sansa.

And he'd made another few gambles in the process, gambles that had nothing to do with her and used her proposal for his own gain. _That_ ... That she might not approve of.

There was no help for it now, though. And there was no point trying to defer judgement either.

Hope. Good hearts and hard work, as Davos said. He had to hope it would be enough.

She was in her solar. Of course she was. Anyone else would have broken for the midday meal by now, but Sansa tended to work until other people forced or cajoled her to stop nowadays. Or maybe she'd always been like that, when she had actual work to do instead of being forced to wait on the pleasure of others. Tyrion doubted it, though. Some people drowned their sorrows in wine and false love, or had done once upon a time. Sansa drowned hers in work. It was fear that drove this. The need to prepare against the enemy. _All_ her enemies.

Her door was open, the better to see people coming, but she was distracted enough that she missed him at first. Not for long. Only a second, really. It was enough for him to study her, though. The red of her hair. The focus of her expression. The thin lines etched into her brow by experience and pain.

She was a long way from the child he'd seen first at Winterfell all those years ago. From the pale, fragile beauty of King's Landing as well. Here was a woman grown, and through hardship as much as years.

And he wondered, vaguely, what had happened to him these last few years, that she was only more beautiful for that.

"... My lady," he said softly, tapping on the doorframe to announce himself. Her eyes flicked up immediately, a hard, sharp sweep of startled alarm. He didn't wonder at it. He'd have wondered more at anything else. But those hard eyes softened, just after it. They softened, and warmed, when she realised it was him. 

He tried, he really _tried_ , not to feel too blindly, desperately hopeful because of it.

"Tyrion," she said, coming to her feet with a smile. A wary one, around the edges. But maybe a hopeful one too. Tyrion hoped. Oh, he _hoped_. He tilted his head towards the door to ask permission, and closed it behind him as he came.

"Hello Sansa," he tried, as she came around her desk and held out a hand to him. He took it, carefully, and smiled tentatively up at her. "I hope you don't mind, I ... I hoped I might join you."

"Not at all," she said quickly, and there was something fragile in it, something delicate and eager. Though it vanished hurriedly. She hid it, behind the old and easy mask of courtesy, and guided him over to the pair of chairs to one side of her desk. The ones set together, not opposed across a tabletop. Well. That seemed hopeful too. She sat down beside him and, after a moment of vaguely nervous deliberation, kept his hand in hers. 

And then they sat, for a minute, and stared awkwardly at each other. Wordlessly, their fingers fretting against each other. All Tyrion's words caught in his throat. Hers didn't seem any better.

"Is there--" she started finally, just as Tyrion pushed out a fumbling "My lady--" at exactly the same moment. She stopped, and he stopped. A blush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks, and he was glad for his beard for more reasons than just its warmth as well. They both glanced down. His hand curled convulsively in hers.

Finally, after a long moment, he tried again more carefully. His words didn't bump into hers, this time. He nearly wished they had.

"I've just come from my Queen," he said softly, taking his hope and his heart in his hands. Well. The one not already holding hers, anyway. Her head snapped up, and he made himself look at her expression. Made himself evaluate it as dispassionately as he could. There was just fear, though. Naked fear, and desperate hope. The same as he felt himself. "She, ah. She and Jon ... I think, I _hope_ , they're reconciling right now. He came to her. It seemed to be going well, from what little I saw before they threw me out."

He was delaying again. He knew that. But it _was_ pertinent information. Jon was her brother, recently revealed bloodlines be damned, and every moment of potential instability between the two royals was a very real threat to everything they were working for here. Sansa took it in stride. There was disappointment, only a moment of it, before her mask hardened reflexively over it. She nodded, very clearly casting aside her personal feelings for a second to consider that as carefully and as calculatingly as it deserved.

Tyrion's hand spasmed, a flash of despair nearly tearing him in two.

"That's good," Sansa said, not noticing. Her back straightened with her reserve. Her hand tugged, trying to take itself back. Tyrion tightened his fingers helplessly and didn't let it. She glanced at him, at whatever must have been showing in his expression, and her reserve faltered. Whatever her analysis might have been, only the start of it came out, fumbling and distant. "We can't ... We can't afford to be ... The Night King ..."

"Yes," Tyrion agreed, equally pathetically. "The Night King. War, alliance. Happy royals. Yes. It's ... It's good. Very good. I know."

She bit her lip. She looked at him, and he watched her mask fracture neatly in two. He watched his own hope and terror and despair look back at him, every painful, aching moment of it. He'd never thought himself a coward. Not really. Not until this moment. But he did, suddenly, and equally suddenly he violently refused to bear it.

"She said yes," he whispered. Looking right at her, knowing she'd know what he meant. "I asked. She said yes. There ... There's considerations. Concessions. Some you might not like. But she did ... She gave her blessing. If we want it. If you ... if _you_ still want it. She gave us her blessing to be wed."

Sansa's breath punched out of her in a ragged sigh. She leaned forward, hunched over in her relief, her hand clenched tight around his. She closed her eyes, tears starting in them, and her smile spread dazed and disbelieving across her face.

"You did it," she whispered raggedly. "You really did it. We can make it happen."

Tyrion swallowed thickly. "Yes," he said. "It ... It won't be easy. There's too much bad blood in our history, and too many complications depending on who lives and dies in this war. But I ... I offered her some reasons. A plan, a collection of plans. Not all of them may work. It was enough. I have leave to love you, my lady. I have leave to fight for our future. At least as far as my Queen is concerned."

Sansa laughed, a cracked, brightly amazed sort of sound. She brought her head up, lifted her face to look at him, and he'd never seen her eyes so brightly blue. 

"Arya gave leave too," she said, the words trickling in delight and amusement from her mouth. "She was here. She knew. I'm not sure how, but she did. We ... We gave each other leave. Or ... promised each other support. She'll help. She'll help me fight for you."

Fight for you. That ... Something quivered inside him at those words. Something he didn't quite understand. He felt like something tore, in his chest, and everything lightened suddenly.

"My lady," he whispered, a strange sort of feeling in his chest. "What do you want from me, my lady? Tell me, and I promise you it's yours."

He'd never learned how not to fall in love. Despite everything. He'd never learned.

Sansa looked at him sharply. She looked at him like she could _see_ that. She looked at him like she could suddenly see everything. His heart stuttered in his chest. Terror swarmed him. This was the part where they asked for what they really wanted. This was the part where the prices lined up to be paid.

But Sansa stood, instead. She stood over him, his hand in hers, her eyes sharp and fierce on his. And then she stooped, brought her spare hand to his face, and kissed him savagely.

It wasn't like the first one. The one from yesterday, the pained, desperate one, the one tasting of her tears. This one started as fiercely, the same rush of courage and terror, but then it softened. Then it sweetened. He reached up helplessly with his other hand, and though she quivered, she leaned into his touch. Her palm curled around his cheek. Her thumb brushed gently beneath his eye. When she pulled away, only a breath, it was to rest her forehead against his. It was to close her eyes and fold herself over him, as if to bracket him from the outside world.

"I want you," she said, soft and savage as she opened her eyes. As she leaned a little way back and glared her defiance at him. "I want a husband I can trust, a husband who might love me. A husband who might let me love him back. I want _you_. Tell me how to fight for you. Tell me what needs to be done. I'm done with waiting, my lord. I'm tired of being _allowed_ what I love in dribs and drabs, for the pleasure of someone else. Tell me what faces us. Tell me how to win what is mine. Tell me how to make this possible."

And he ... he couldn't. He couldn't have told her anything in the _world_ at that moment. He couldn't do anything but stare.

And she relented, after a moment. She softened, and moved away to pace frustratedly around the room. Short, angry steps, a muscle ticking in frustration in the hard line of her jaw. Tyrion managed to stir himself eventually. He managed to lever himself forwards in the chair. Though his hand, unbidden, reached up momentarily to touch his lips. She saw it. She turned to him, and her expression softened, and a calmer, clearer sort of determination filled her face.

"I'm sorry, Tyrion," she said clearly. "I know it's a lot to ask for you to trust me. I haven't given you any reason yet." He opened his mouth, thought to refute that, and she shook her head. "No," she said, "I haven't. The last you saw of me was running for my life while you were taken away to die. This isn't ... I haven't seen you since then. Why should I have changed so much that I would value you now, when I didn't then."

And his heart quailed there. It flip-flopped in his chest. He couldn't answer. He didn't dare.

She smiled sadly at him. "I know," she said. "I know it makes no sense. All I can say, my lord, is that though I am a slow learner, I do learn eventually. And the more men I know, the more you stand taller in comparison. I know the value of trust now. I know the value of a person who has every reason and excuse in the world to hurt you and never does. I know what kind of strength that takes, what kind of honour and courage. I have seen a thousand weak men since I left you, my lord. I have seen a thousand grubby, grabby little men who will take what they want just because suddenly they can. I have been betrayed in every way. And I have survived. And I have _learned_. The people in this world who will help you without a reason are very, very few. And there is _no one_ of greater value."

Tyrion licked his lips in answer to that. His head felt vast and heavy and numb. The words came out in a rasp, fumbling, heavy things that fell like stones. 

"That doesn't mean you have to love them," he said. "You can ... Value doesn't mean you have to love them. It doesn't mean you have to care."

Her smile broadened. It stretched bright and bleak across her face. 

"I know," she said. "But I do. With you. Just with you. I do."

He was crying. He could feel it, vaguely. A trickle down his cheek, into his beard. It didn't seem important. "I want to believe you," he said, and he didn't ... he didn't mean it as an expression of doubt. He didn't mean it as a goad or a punishment. It was just the truth. "I _want_ to believe you. I promise you I do."

She nodded, tears trickling absently down her own cheeks. "I know," she said again. "It's okay. I'll prove it to you. Give me time. I'll prove it for you."

And he ... he nodded at that. Just nodded. There wasn't any other answer.

"I had to argue it as an alliance," he said. Falling back on politics, as he always did when there was nothing else. Politics, these days. Politics and wine. The pretense of love had died with Shae. Politics were harder, colder, but in their way they were a cleaner sort of lie. "For my Queen. When the war is done. If she and Jon go south, or if she and Jon part ways, a separate marriage between north and south might help to cushion it either way. There are steps we'll have to take if we get that far. The North hates me. My name. There are things we'll have to do to minimise that. I think she'll allow most of them."

Sansa straightened herself up. Sniffed, once, as she dashed the tears from her face. Then she came back across and sat beside him, the calm, collected Lady of Winterfell once again.

"I know," she said, her eyes still bright but thoughtful once again. "Lannisters are not well liked anymore, and even if you're not with them, your queen is a problem by herself. Though if she stays and fights with us, that may soften. The same for you. If you stand for the North and fight the dead, you may gain more forgiveness than you might expect."

"Here's hoping," he said, and she smiled faintly for the wryness of it. That pleased him. After all this time, that pleased him still. "There's other things I can do. Things I'll probably have to do either way, and things you may have to do as well. The North wants a Stark. Once the fact that Jon is a Targaryen comes out, that may get very complicated."

"He's not a Targaryen," Sansa said sharply. Almost snapped. He blinked at her, and she flushed, but she didn't retract the statement. "He's a Stark. By his mother's blood, he's still a Stark. He's still my brother. The North will know that. He's fought for them from the very first. They'll know it. None of us will allow otherwise. They'll not turn on him, not as his brothers of the Night Watch did. We won't permit it."

Tyrion opened his mouth, and then closed it again. A stupider man than him would have known not to argue with that. At least not yet.

"All right," he said, a little cautiously. Speaking to queens. It did that. "Let's hope that works, but all right. It'll still come out, and between that and his love and loyalty towards my Queen, the North may want another Stark to sit at Winterfell. If your other brother can fill the role, then we don't need to worry about that, but if he can't ..."

"He said he won't," Sansa admitted, and with a hint of frustration to it. A hint of confusion and bewilderment. "I'm not sure how to explain why not, or if it will still matter after the dead are defeated. But for now at least he says he can't. I won't force him. He's different now. I'm not sure I could, and I wouldn't anyway. None of us will be caged again. Not while I can stop it."

A forlorn hope, that, Tyrion thought distantly. But let's hold it anyway.

"You're the best choice," he said quietly. "If we make it that far, you'll be the best choice to hold Winterfell if Jon goes south. You and your children. But the North won't want a Lannister name. My father forced our marriage in the first place to win that, and it would have backfired on him as surely as it will on us. I have no doubt of that."

She frowned tightly. "What does that mean?" she asked, voice ripe with sudden suspicion. "Tyrion. Does that mean you don't ... Does that mean you're not going to marry me?"

"No," he said quickly. "No. Or at least, I hope not. I had an idea. It may or may not work, or be allowed. But if we can raise a king and a queen and have them back us, it may have some hope." She frowned at him, and he grimaced anxiously. "It may be possible for you to keep your name," he said. "You and your children. The North might allow it. You've been married twice and they seem to have already discounted it both times. With a royal decree, you could retain the name of Stark and pass it on to your children, regardless of who you marry."

Sansa stared at him blankly. She seemed to struggle with that. To hold it out from her and pick at it blindly.

"You would ... You would renounce your right to our children?" she asked, and there was something in her voice that he couldn't read at all. Something, abruptly, that terrified him. "Tyrion. You would renounce them?"

" _No_ ," he said, and he didn't know if he'd ever been so vehement. He had a thought of Jaime, suddenly. Of his brother, looking at the children he could never claim as his. The children who would never bear his Lannister name. He blinked back tears, and shook his head. "Sansa, no. I would ... I will _never_ renounce them. Should we ever be so blessed, I would claim them as my own before the world, and love them until the day I die. I swear it. This is only ... The world would know they were mine. They would be Starks of Winterfell, but they would be _my_ Starks of Winterfell. I would leave no one any doubt of it."

He would not suffer as Jaime had suffered. He would not stand unable to hold them as his own. He would not leave them to wonder who their father was. He swore that. Here and now.

"It's just ... It's just the politics," he said, picking his way around it carefully. "That's all. Women do it all the time. Bear children to a name they themselves weren't born with, and love them as their children just the same. It's not ... It's not different. We'd be married. It's not different if it's just in your name instead of mine. It might not happen. It might not come to that. But if it did ... I wouldn't mind it. To see that the Stark name didn't die. I wouldn't mind."

And still she stared at him. She stared at him like ... He didn't know. No one had ever looked at him like that.

"... We could do both," she said, after a very, very long moment. Distantly. Oddly. "We could ... The girls. If it came to that. The girls could bear your name, and the boys could bear mine. Or ... Or the heir could bear mine, and the siblings ... I could bear Lannisters and cherish them. The North might not, but _I_ could. Their father would teach them how to bear the name with honour. I would know that."

Tyrion stared at her, then. He stared at her, stricken to the bone. And then he whispered:

"Please never die. If you do nothing else for me in this world, my lady. Please never, ever die. Not unless I might go first."

Because he did, in that moment, understand his father as he never had before. 

She laughed at him. Wetly. His battered, ferocious wolf-lady, his winter queen in all her fearsome finery. "If I die," she said. "I'll die hard, and I'll take our enemies with me. I'm not Arya. I might not do it well. But if I am to die, I _will_ take someone with me."

"Fuck our enemies," he answered instantly. "Fuck the lot of them. Take _me_."

A light flared in her eyes for that. A glow of something fierce and desperate and greedy. It didn't frighten him, suddenly. It didn't frighten him at all.

"I will," she whispered fiercely. "Only let me, my lord. And I will."

And at this point, he thought, there was nothing else he could do.


	6. Pledges of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the door closes on Davos and Tyrion, Jon makes his case to Daenerys, and finds her not unwelcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter than normal, because I've been sick and I struggled with it, but I figured Jon and Dany did need a bit of a chapter after where I left them. So, um. Voila?

Daenerys stood watching him as their advisors made it safely out the door. Her eyes were cool, her chin high. For a moment after the door clicked shut, Jon couldn't find words in the face of her. His heart quivered in his chest, shame and fear at the evidence of the hurt he'd caused, and his throat closed over the words. He angled his head towards the door instead, as though his silence was only to make properly sure that they were alone.

Well. As alone as a king or a queen could ever truly be, anyway. But he tipped an ear to make sure that Davos and Tyrion truly had left them to it. As much as he loved the one and respected the other, he did want to do this part himself.

If he had to answer, for his heart and his actions because of it, then he would do so as himself.

Daenerys spoke first. He supposed he wasn't surprised there. She had always been stronger than him. She'd never had a single thing in her life that she hadn't fought for. She swept coolly back to her chair, and held out a hand to offer him its mate.

"Will you sit down, my lord?" she asked lightly, and her lips curled at the challenge inherent in the title. To be honest, Jon might not have caught it, if not for that. Fencing with words and titles was Sansa's strength, not his. But he knew the woman before him. Even with only as little time as they'd had, he knew her. At least a little bit. At least enough.

"... No," he said. Gently, with soft, careful firmness. She froze anyway. Something flashed in her eyes, a glimmer of hurt and human feeling. Then she closed it away, and lifted her chin as only a dragon ought.

Gods, but she was beautiful. So proud, so strong. So very, very lovely.

"There's something I would say first," said Jon, moving carefully towards her. Not the chair. _Her_. He drifted forwards until he stood carefully by her side. She didn't retreat before him. She raised her chin and dared him further instead. He smiled, crookedly. He looked at her, for a long minute, and then ...

Then he bent one knee, and went to the rug in front of her.

Daenerys stared at him. Her breath caught audibly in her chest. Her hand half rose to her chest in shock. As if to guard it. She stared down at him, her eyes now wide, and Jon knew he'd done right. This once, with this one woman, he'd done right.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly and earnestly. "If I've given you cause to fear me these last few days, my lady, or even only to doubt, I'm sorry for it. I never meant to hurt you, or to threaten you either. I don't know how to be a Targaryen. I only barely know how to be a Stark. But I've no care for a throne, southern or otherwise. I care for my people, for their survival. And I care for you, not least because alone of all the south, you've helped with that. You've stood for them. For the North, for _my_ people. Whatever name I might have, I owe you better than betrayal for that."

Her expression faltered, and she tipped her head away rapidly, turned it up and to the side so that he wouldn't see her sudden tears. Jon smiled sadly, and turned his own eyes to the rug to spare her. He bowed his head. 

But she surprised him. As she had from the first, she surprised him.

"I knew that," she said, her voice carefully calm and clear. She was still crying, when he glanced up. Her lips pressed tight around the words while tears dripped around them. She looked at him, and he could see the honesty there. "I knew it. I never feared you would betray me. Not ... Not for long. I didn't doubt your honour, Jon. I feared ..." Her voice broke, and she took a moment to gather it back again. To face him as honestly as he faced her. "I feared that you would hate me. You never asked for my name. I feared ... I feared you would think me part of the lie. A reminder of it."

And that ... He stood, carefully. He held out his hands, gathered hers gently when she let him. This he could answer. With the politics, the affairs of kings and queens, he thought he would always stumble, but a question of the heart he could answer fairly. Not always _happily_ , but at least honestly. And in this case, perhaps not _un_ happily either.

"We were children," he said quietly. "The both of us. We had no hand in the choices of our parents. The only thing we can do now is live with them. I ... I won't pretend I'm easy about it. I wanted to be a Stark. All my life I've wanted nothing more than that. To be a Targaryen ... And there's you as well. To both love you and share your blood ... I was raised in the North, your grace. We're not so easy with that as Targaryens might be. I _want_ to love you. I'm not sure I've much choice at this stage. But there's a part of me that says ..."

"That says it shouldn't be allowed," she finished, and there was some of the cool remoteness of the queen in her tone again. In her tone, in the stiffness of her shoulders. She let Jon keep her hands, though. She let them stay warm and pressed between his. 

"Aye," he said tiredly. "You're my aunt by blood. And that doesn't make the difference it should, not to my heart, but ..." He shook his head. "Does it truly make no difference to you? To know that I share your blood? To know that we've shared a bed together, when we might share our blood and our name as well?"

She laughed faintly, a damp exhale of breath. "I grew up thinking I was to marry my brother," she said, and she looked at him then. Fierce, violet eyes full of steel. "You're a much better choice than he was, Jon Snow. Or Stark, or Targaryen. He was a cruel man, by the end, violent and obsessed by power. I was afraid of him. I loved him, and I was afraid. You're not like that. You're better. I can trust you. I can trust your honour." 

He blinked at her, a trembling and vaguely guilty hope in his chest, and she took a steadying breath before she continued. She lifted her chin, and finished as honestly as a woman and as certain as a queen.

"If I could have chosen one person in the world to share my name with," she said. "My body, my name, and my future. If I could have chosen just one person, it would have been you. It still is. I'm not afraid of you. It doesn't hurt me to marry you, Jon. No matter what name you bear or what blood runs in your veins. It ... It is a comfort, to know that you're my family. To know that I still _have_ family. But I would love you no matter what your name."

His breath rushed out of him. Left him dizzy, left him reeling in its wake. He thought she might be holding him up, now. Her hands. He thought she might be bearing his weight as he staggered with it. But she was right. Family. She was right. He'd thought it with Arya, and he thought it again. Maybe the blood didn't matter. Maybe the love would be enough.

"I do love you," he whispered. "I wanted to. It wouldn't have hurt so much if I hadn't. I want to love you, and I want to stand beside you. And I want to love my family, and I want to stand beside _them_. I want to do both. I want to be allowed."

And she nodded, there. She drew herself up, Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She held herself high, and by the fire in her eyes only a fool would have ever tried to face her.

"Then you shall," she said imperiously. This tiny woman with all the strength in the world inside her. "You shall have both. They're your family, and therefore mine as well. They kept you safe for me. For _years_ , they kept you safe, while the kings of this land sought to kill all of us, your family and mine alike. I shall reward them, then. I shall ensure that _no one_ shall threaten them again, not without facing all the might of the Iron Throne and the Mother of Dragons. I lost my family once. I thought myself the last. That shall not happen again."

Jon leaned close to her. Helplessly. He brought his palm to her cheek and rested his brow against hers. She startled, faintly. Then she leaned into him in turn.

"Thank you," he managed hoarsely. "I know you've no reason to love them. Not yet. But they're all I have. We're all that's left. I had to listen to them fall. My father, our mother. Robb. I couldn't do anything. I owed my duty to another, to the watch, and so I had to stand and let them fall. And by the time I could do something, it was too late. Rickon died in front of me. Sansa had to save herself. Arya too. Bran came back from the Wall by his own strength. There was nothing I could do for them. There's never been anything I could do. And I ... I'm so tired of listening to them die, Dany. I'm so tired of watching them fall."

And he thought of Aemon, then. He remembered the old man, his great grand-uncle, and how he had listened to his family die too. All but Daenerys herself. And ... and him, maybe, though Aemon had never known that. Jon wondered if he'd have been happy for it. He wondered if the old man might have been proud.

Duty. That hardest of masters. Love might be the death of duty, but duty was the death of love in turn. Unless you fought it. Unless you were lucky. Unless your duty and your love could be married in one person.

Unless the Queen you bent your knee to might love you and cherish your duty in turn.

"... We won't lose anyone else," she whispered fiercely to him now. Pulling back, taking his face in her hands to look at him, and to _promise_ him. "We won't, Jon. We've lost enough family to the games of thrones and the armies of the dead alike. No more. I have family returned to me that I never thought to look for. I have _love_ , and I have already sacrificed enough of that to the demands of my throne. I won't anymore. What we build from this point we'll build for both of us, and for both our peoples too. An empty chair isn't worth one more drop of our family's blood. Otherwise there's just no point."

And he hoped ... he hoped she meant it. He really did. But she'd come North. She'd abandoned the war with the south and come north with him to save them all. She'd pledged herself to him as much as he to her, at least when it came to that. When it came to the dead, and the needs of his people in the face of them. And in the end, as much as anything else, that was what mattered. She'd shared not just his love, but his duty, and she'd done it willingly. 

What did all the empty chairs to the south matter, in the face of that?

"You know I'll never fight you," he said quietly, a promise offered as earnestly in turn. "For the throne, I mean. I know there's some might argue my claim is better than yours, but I don't want it. I never have. I wasn't raised a Targaryen. I wasn't raised to be a king or even a lord. The throne should go to someone who'll do right by it, someone who knows _how_ to do right by it. That isn't me. But I think, from what I've seen, that it might be you. Your people love you. They'll fight for you. They'll argue with me until they're blue in the face for you. And if you fight for all your allies the way you've fought for us, here in the North, then I think I can see why."

She laughed faintly for that. For the wryness of it, maybe. The rueful self-knowledge. She laughed, and reclaimed her hands to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"I think you might do better than you believe," she said, looking calmly at him. Calmly? No. _Peacefully_. A woman at peace, her fears eased. "Your people love you as well, Jon Snow. They gave your crown to you by their own choice. And we will honour that, I think. When the time comes. I will not sit on my throne alone. So long as ... That is, if you still want to love me then. If you still want to be my husband. We could ... We could lead them together. If your duty permitted that."

And Jon didn't know the answer to that. Not for duty, anyway, not for politics and the demands of thrones. He didn't know if he had that right. But for his heart's sake, at least, he knew one answer. The only one that mattered just now, though others might be demanded later.

"I hope it will," he said, with all the weight of an oath. "Dany. Daenerys Targaryen. I would love nothing more than to stand beside you, to serve both our peoples as best I can. I would love nothing more than to love you, and to offer you what strength I can for what comes next. I ... You're my family. By blood and by choice, you're my family. I'll not betray that again."

And she nodded, thoughtfully, and then she bowed to him. A full curtsey before him. She bent her knee, to him as he to her, and he could do nothing but stare at her. He could do nothing but gape, as she came to her feet again and smiled.

"You did not betray it in the first place," she said quietly. "From either end, I think. Your family loves you as I do. You stand for them as you do me. You're no traitor, Jon Snow, to them or to me. I would hope that all who love you would see that as well as I do."

"... Aye," he managed dazedly. More stunned by a bow than by a kiss. From her, at least. Always from her. "I hope so too."

And then, because he hadn't _entirely_ forgotten himself, just mostly, he took her hand again in his, and he bowed over it. He raised it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Small hands, she had. Delicate. But stronger than all the world.

"We will fight together," he said quietly. "From now until the end, we'll fight together. We'll win our wars for each other, and build something better from the end of them."

"Yes," she said. Mother of dragons, and queen of his heart. "Yes, we _will_."


	7. The Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya finally tracks Tyrion down for a private word. In which there are blatant threats and vague reassurances and incredibly awkward conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Before I start this, I'm actually not sure on Arya's status in canon re: sex. If she has one. I am assuming for this fic that she is flowered (she's 17 now, isn't she?), that she still has her maidenhead, and that she can feel desire even if her experiences have made her interpretations of it a little ... odd. None of this is necessarily all that reassuring to Gendry. Or Tyrion, for that matter.

It was morning before Arya got back around to cornering the little lion. She'd spent as much of the night as she could with Gendry, once his work at the forges was done for the evening. 

Not that they'd done anything, besides eat and smile at each other and celebrate. Gendry had permission now, but he still wouldn't go farther than a kiss on the hand, and that only barely. He certainly hadn't let her stay the night. Not that she'd altogether wanted to, necessarily, but Gendry had flatly refused it either way. Whatever Jon might say, her smith was cautious still. Worried. Afraid. She needed to fix that. Sansa. Sansa would help her fix it. 

But for now it was enough that he could hug her in public without being terrified. It was enough that she could spend an evening with him and he wouldn't cringe in paranoia for half of it. It was enough that she could sit and be warm with him, where people could see, and he would let her.

It was enough that he knew he was allowed to love her. It was enough that Jon had called him brother.

More than enough, really. Her heart still somersaulted in her chest when she remembered that. Needle sang at her side. Anything Jon wanted in the world would be his. More than ever. He only had to ask.

But Sansa first. Sansa'd promised her first, even if she hadn't had the chance to act on it yet, and Sansa was in more immediate need. Arya'd heard things on her way back to her room last night. She'd heard that she hadn't been alone in spending an evening with her suitor. Sansa had apparently kept company with the little lion well into the night. Working, of course, the pair of them hard at work with supplies and shipments and stores, but even still. 

The lion was moving fast, and Arya needed to be sure of him before things went much further.

He was surprisingly hard to corner, too. He spent a lot of the morning closeted with his queen. Jon had apparently made quite the impression the day before. Well, he'd been planning to, but at the time Arya hadn't been sure how well he would manage it. Apparently she should have had more faith in her brother when it came to romantic endeavours. He seemed to be better at it now than either her _or_ Sansa.

Arya wasn't sure how to feel about that yet. Jon and romance. Jon and _Daenerys Targaryen_ and romance. Especially with what Bran and Sam had discovered. But he'd wanted it. He'd been stupid in love with her since he'd arrived home, they'd all seen that. Jon didn't tend to be subtle about these things. And she had brought a dragon to rescue him beyond the Wall. Arya would give the woman a lot of leeway for that. 

Besides. She'd seen how Daenerys was with people. She wasn't someone Arya could challenge properly. A girl would need subtlety, and the ability to fence with words. No. Daenerys would be Sansa's to test, when it came to it. As Gendry had been Jon's.

As Tyrion would be Arya's.

She caught him in the library, finally. He'd gone there after the midday meal. She'd been surprised, really. She'd expected him to go back to Sansa, if not his queen. But he seemed tired, when she slipped almost silently through the door and studied him. He was sitting on one of the window ledges, his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the stone. He seemed tired and drawn. Exhausted.

"Can I help you?" he asked, without opening his eyes. Waving a hand in the vague direction of the door. He'd heard her come in, then, but he hadn't checked who it was. Well. That was careless of him. How had he lived so long, if he was always so?

"I don't know," she answered mildly, and was rewarded by his eyes flaring open. " _Can_ you help me? My lord Lannister?"

She smiled slightly at him as she said it, and was pleased that he sat upright in response. That he eyed her as warily as anyone eyeing a wolf should. He was such a little thing, her sister's lion. He seemed like he should be such an easy thing to kill. Yet he wasn't dead yet. And somewhere in the middle of things, he'd managed to earn her sister's respect.

She did wonder how he'd done that. She did mean to find out, as well.

"... My lady," he said, after a cautious pause. "I, ah. I didn't realise who you were. I'm sorry. Were you looking for me?"

Arya didn't answer that. Not immediately. She moved forwards into the room instead. Slow, easy steps, studying things idly as she came. Something flashed in his eyes for it. Weariness. Recognition. A smile flickered wryly around his mouth, half disguised by his beard, and he swung his legs out resignedly to sit on the edge of the windowsill and face her properly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', shall I?" he said, tipping an eyebrow pointedly at her. "I will say, I'm surprised you didn't come sooner, my lady. It's been two days now."

Arya smiled at him. "Sansa asked me not to," she explained. "She didn't want me to scare you away. She wants to keep you this time."

She studied his expression keenly as she said it. She looked for triumph, mostly. She looked for anything hard or cold or edged with victory, like the things she'd seen in Littlefinger's eyes. She didn't find them, though. What she saw was surprise, mostly. Shock, happiness. His eyes flicked away, hid themselves while delight and disbelief ran rampant through him. He didn't look like Littlefinger. He looked like Gendry, if anyone. He looked like her sister's desire to keep him was, even still, more than he'd really dared hope for.

She'd said that. Sansa. She'd said they were like each other, Tyrion and Gendry. That they were both hurt, and scared, and trying to hide it. Not very well. Tyrion _maybe_ a little bit better than Gendry. Still not well.

Truly, now. How had he lived so long, when he wore his heart so plainly?

"Well," he said finally, and she saw it then. The mask, the face. Like Sansa's. Not courtesy, in his case, but wryness. Depreciation. Playing the wound to be laughed at, rather than struck upon. Ah. Not bad, then. "I, ah. I find myself rather willing to be kept. Please ... Please thank your sister for me, will you?"

He smiled at her as he said it, wry and rueful and open. A man with not a thing to hide, except his bleeding. But was that really all there was beneath that mask?

Arya tilted her head at him.

"Thank her yourself," she said, moving to a table near him and jumping up to sit on the edge of it. Swinging her legs carelessly, knowing it fooled neither of them. "I'm not here for that. I'm here for you. I'll apologise to Sansa later."

He winced, faintly. And then he shrugged, and he allowed it.

"I imagined so," he said tiredly. "Well then, my lady. I'm all yours. Have at it."

He even spread his arms in invitation. He was more daring than Gendry tended to be. Closer to Jon. But she'd expected that. Any man who'd threaten to castrate a king to his face wouldn't be a coward when it came to it. Not that Gendry was a coward either. Never that. But he didn't dare it to happen the way Jon did, the way Sansa's lion did. He didn't open his arms and invite people to strike. Gendry had more sense.

But all right then. If Tyrion dared her, she wouldn't balk at answering. On his head be it.

"Why didn't you rape her?" she asked bluntly. She'd travelled the length and breadth of the Riverlands at war. She knew how easily men turned to it. Sansa didn't seem to think so, but Arya did know that. "She belonged to you. No one would have stopped it. So why. Why did she come North unscathed, for Ramsay Bolton to take instead?"

She asked it dispassionately. As dispassionately as she could. She might as well have stabbed him regardless. A full-body quiver went through him, his jaw bunching and his hands clenching into angry, helpless fists. He looked away, looked down, but it was rage he struggled with, not shame. Or only a little shame. The thing on his face, it looked more like rage. And grief.

She knew those. She felt them herself for having asked it. 

"Bolton should never have gotten near her," he said, hard and clipped when he'd gathered himself again. Enough to look at her, hard-eyed and bleak. "If I'd ... She wouldn't have been much better at King's Landing. I know that. Cersei wanted us dead, she'd have gotten her way sooner or later. But if I'd known. What Littlefinger planned, what he wanted for her. If I'd known that at the time, I'd have shoved his poisons up his arse until he _bloated_ on them, and happily stood before the court to answer for it."

And he meant it. Arya could tell. She knew the difference between a boast and a statement of intent. This wasn't the funny little man in front of her. This was the man who'd murdered his father with his own hands the night he'd fled the capital.

This was a man who might murder for Sansa's sake as well. That pleased her, a bit. But she hadn't forgotten her original question either.

"Bolton got his," she said calmly. "Littlefinger did too. So will all our enemies, or at least those who've hurt us worst. That wasn't my question, my lord. I asked you why you declined to number yourself among them. I asked you why you didn't rape my sister."

And his rage faltered, cracked, and the shame came riding up. He looked away.

"It was a sham," he said quietly. Leaning on the wall beside him, all his exhaustion clear again. "That marriage. It was a sham from the first. My father's game, to control Sansa, control the North, and to use me to do it. He called it duty. To him, to the family. I think I hated him even then. And I knew ... I knew your sister didn't deserve to be part of that game. She didn't deserve to be a piece played between us, a rod and a reward to make a disappointing son finally do what he was told. She didn't deserve any of it. All the poisons in that place. All the games. She didn't deserve it. And she didn't deserve me. Some twisted little imp pawing all over her. What had she done, to deserve that?"

"Nothing," Arya said, and bluntly. Coldly enough that he hunched, a wry, self-loathing smile flickering across his lips. "She didn't deserve it. She didn't want you then. And if you'd forced her, you would have deserved everything that happened to you in turn."

If he'd done it, she'd have killed him. Long before he could ever hope to hurt her sister again. If he'd done it, he'd have been dead before he'd passed Winterfell's gates.

But he hadn't. Sansa trusted him because he hadn't. And he didn't argue now, either. He only nodded, tiredly, and agreed.

"I know," he said. "She deserves better, your sister. She has from the start. All of you have."

And he meant that, too. Arya thought he did, at least. He meant it. 

"... Did you really threaten to castrate Joffrey for her?" she asked, and lightly and curiously enough that his head snapped up. His head came around again and he blinked at her, stupefied. Arya smiled mildly at him. "She said something about it. She said you stood in front of the whole hall and told the king he'd be fucking his wife with a wooden cock if he touched her. Is that true?"

His face scrunched up, like he couldn't follow that at all, and when he answered the words came out bemused and almost worried. "Yes?" he hazarded warily. "I was drunk at the time. Not as drunk as they all thought I was, mind you. But yes. I did ... I did do that."

Arya tilted her head. "Would you have done it?" she asked. "If it had come to it. Would you have followed through?"

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Dismissing the first glib answer. He seemed to consider it. To really and truly think it through.

"... It wouldn't have ended well," he said finally. "If I'd tried. They'd have dragged me away, put me to death. Probably Sansa too. Castration wouldn't have killed him, and he'd likely have had her killed in his rage. My father knew that. He stepped in because of it. Because ... Because he knew I would have. Even knowing what would have happened. He stepped in to stop it because he knew that if Joffrey had pushed me, I would have done my damnedest to cut the little bastard's balls off right there in that wedding hall."

He looked up at her, and smiled ruefully.

"I'm not ..." he tried to explain. "I'm not a good man, my lady. I've always known that. I grew up among monsters, and I played with them well enough until they tried to kill me for it. I have lusts. I have desires. I killed my own father out of vengeance for all he'd done to me. I'm a stunted little monster with grudges held close to my heart. All of that is true. But I love your sister. I will love her as long as she might let me, and in whatever way she might let me. I will never force her. I will never betray the trust she has given me. And I will, in the end, gladly die fighting for her. However pointless a gesture it may be."

Arya studied him, for a long, long minute. And then she nodded. 

"I believe you," she said quietly. He closed his eyes and slumped, and she reached up to touch idly at her knife as she smiled. "You know I'll kill you if you're lying, right? You know if you hurt her you'll never leave Winterfell alive?"

He nodded, his own smile almost cheerful. "I know," he said, spreading his hands in amused resignation. "Between you and your brothers, yes, I had taken it as read." He paused for a moment, and then said more hesitantly: "I'm glad for that, you know. I'm glad that she ... that she has people now. People who love her for her own sake, not just because she might be useful to them. I'm glad there are still Starks enough in this world for her to find her family again."

And Arya thought he meant _that_ too.

She had to answer it. It should be Sansa who told him this part. Arya knew that. But Jon had been the one to tell Gendry, not her, and maybe Sansa would forgive her this too. If it helped her keep her lion, maybe she'd forgive it.

"... You're family too," she said quietly, while he only blinked at her. "Or you will be. You belong to her now. If you're true to us, we'll defend you too. Sansa wants you safe. She wants you happy, if you can be. She's our sister. We'll help her with that."

She hopped down off the table as he stared at her. Struck mute, apparently, which wasn't entirely unpleasing. Arya did enjoy having an effect on people. But it was a good mute, this one. It was hopeful. Sansa would want that for her lion. The same as Arya wanted it for her Gendry.

And actually ... while she thought about that. Just while it was in her head.

She turned back to him, her expression serious once again, and probably uncertain too, and Tyrion straightened automatically in the face of it. He raised himself up in his seat to look at her.

"Something else, my lady?" he asked softly. Carefully, still, with that wry mask trying to sneak back over the soft, dazed thing beneath it. Arya wavered slightly. She wasn't sure if this was a question he had a right to answer, or she had a right to ask him. But she'd opened him to the heart a minute ago, and all but called him brother a minute later. Maybe it couldn't hurt.

And besides. There weren't a lot of others she could ask.

"... On a different matter," she started carefully, and he lifted a curious eyebrow. He didn't harden, though. He didn't deny her. She drifted closer to him, and tried to think how to ask it. "If I ... wanted your advice with something. Would you give it?"

He blinked, and nodded carefully. "If I have any," he said. That wry deprecation again. Arya ignored this time. It wasn't the point now. 

Arya took a deep breath. On any other matter, she might be calmer, more controlled, but not this one. And she did doubt, because of that. She did wonder if he was really the right choice for this. But she had no business trusting him with Sansa if she didn't trust him with herself. Call it a test. Call it an examination. Call it anything but what it was.

"... You've been with women," she started finally, and he very nearly flinched in shock. Arya ignored that, shaking her head and barreling hastily onwards. "I know not with Sansa. But have you ever ... have you ever taken a maidenhead? Do you know ... Do you know what it's supposed to be like?"

And he really did stare at her for that one. His eyes went wide, a bit wild around the edges. Arya didn't tend to listen much to lessons on propriety, but she knew enough to know why he was worried. She didn't let it stop her. To his credit, he didn't either.

Daring. She'd said that. Her sister's lion had daring.

"... Is there no one else you can ask for this?" he asked carefully, after a long minute. No, not carefully. Gently. Like she was wounded. Arya bristled at him.

"No," she snapped shortly. "Not for what it's meant to be like. Sansa's first was Ramsay, I don't think she's going to be much help. And I'm _not_ asking Jon."

He did flinch there. But he bore down, and bore through it. "What about the swordswoman?" he tried. "Brienne. You train with her, don't you? Could you not ask her? I don't ... I'm not asking this to refuse you, my lady. I'm just not sure I'm the best authority on these matters."

Arya growled, and shook her head. "I don't know her well enough," she said in frustration. "And I know that. I know. It's just ... You said you had desires. Lusts. And you _have_ ... experienced it. Love. What it's meant to be like, not ... not what Ramsay made Sansa do. I can't talk to her about this. She's afraid for me as it is."

Something flickered in his eyes there. Pieces coming together. His head came up in realisation, and when it lowered again he'd softened entirely. 

"Your boy," he said softly. "The one you love. You want to be with him."

Arya nodded jerkily. "I think so," she said. "I ... I _think_ so. If I want it with anyone, I want it with him. But I don't ... I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. Everyone I've ever talked to says it hurts."

She didn't like his expression there. She didn't like the pity in it. But she bore through as well.

"... It can," he said finally. "It does, I think. The first time. Your maidenhead breaking. It's ... It's new, it's not something your body understands. I don't know myself, you understand. Men have it easier. But the first time, yes, there's some blood. Some hurt. There shouldn't be any after that, though. Not if you're doing it right."

Arya nodded. "I don't mind pain," she said calmly. "Not if it's worth it. I was stabbed in the stomach once. Multiple times. I know what pain feels like."

Horror trickled across his expression there, though he hid it quickly enough. "It should _definitely_ not hurt that much," was all he said. Very firmly. And then he paused, and asked the next part carefully: "You do ... want him, I presume? I mean, not just because you're meant to. Not just because you love him. You do desire him as well?"

Arya grimaced. Here. Here was the sticking point. 

"I don't know," she said, in some frustration. "I think so? I feel _something_ when I look at him. Like I want to fight with him, but I don't. I never want to hurt him. But it's like that. I feel ... excited. Happy. Like my heart is pounding, and my ... my stomach is hot. I _think_ I want him. No. No, I know I want _him_. I think I want _that_. If ... If it's worth it."

That wasn't a question. That last bit. Not quite. But this was why she asked him. That, and he was more daring than Gendry was. It wouldn't frighten him as much to answer.

And he was looking at her very seriously. That thing in his expression, that thing like pity, but not quite. Something gentler than that. Something warmer.

"It can be," he said softly. "I'm not ... I haven't experienced it as much as you might think. It's better with love. I've only ever had bits and pieces of that, but I've had enough to know that much. But pleasure, yes, that can be had. On both parts, even without love. You can enjoy it. It doesn't have to hurt, not after the first time, and I think even that can be lessened if you do it right. It's ... It's a matter of patience. Of taking your time to ... to find out what the other likes. If you want him, and you love him, then I don't think you have to worry. Just take your time. Don't rush to the finish. Enjoy each other along the way."

Arya bit her lip. She didn't like this. She didn't like talking to him about this. Tyrion Lannister, of all people! But that ... that sounded right. Her mother and father had loved each other, after all. They'd had five children together. She couldn't imagine they'd have loved each other so much if it had hurt every time. 

It couldn't all be rape. It couldn't all be what had happened to Sansa. The world would be littered with dead husbands if it were.

"... He's afraid of hurting me," she found herself saying. Only because Sansa trusted him. Only because he did look at her so gently, even knowing she could kill him. "My Gendry. He's a commoner. He's afraid. He won't touch me if he's afraid of hurting me. I want him to touch me."

And something ... something shuttered in Tyrion at that. Something very old, very dark. She noticed it, even through her own distress. Because of it, maybe. Something went through him there.

"I don't blame him," he said quietly. Almost darkly. "Affairs between nobles and commoners can go ... very badly. Especially for the commoner. I wouldn't blame him at all for being worried."

Arya snarled at him for that. "Jon gave his blessing!" she snapped. "Sansa too. He's allowed. He's mine by right. I won't let anyone hurt him!"

That dark thing snapped back at her for it. She could see it, see the edges of old anger and old anguish, the way he wanted to bite back at her on the strength of them. But he mastered it, before it happened. He shoved it back, and made himself focus on the here and now instead.

"All right," he said, holding up his hands placatingly. "All right. I wouldn't gainsay any of you. But I don't blame him for being afraid, my lady. And ... And if you dismiss your own pain so calmly in his face, I don't think you're going to help with that either. If ... If I may say so."

She blinked. She blinked, and pulled back a little at that. " _My_ pain?" she asked confusedly. He nodded.

"Yours," he agreed. "He doesn't want to hurt you. For more reasons, I assume, than just the fact that you and your entire family would promptly kill him for it if he tried. Purposefully, anyway." He grimaced, wryly, and carried on. "If he loves you truly, my lady, then he doesn't want to hurt you. And if that's the case, then hearing you say you've been stabbed, that any pain is worth it, isn't reassuring. It's not what he wants. Why would he be happy that he might hurt you by accident, and you wouldn't even say anything? He needs to trust you. He needs to know you won't let yourself be hurt, just because you think you can bear it."

Arya stared at him, for a long minute. And then she said: "You really don't want to hurt her, do you. You really want my sister to be safe."

He closed his eyes. He lowered his head and nodded firmly. "Yes," he said. "I want her to be safe. I don't want to hurt her, and I don't want to see her hurt. I don't want to see her sister hurt either. For her sake, I wouldn't want it. But you've been through a lot yourself, my lady. I wouldn't want it for yours either. And neither, I hope, would your young smith. Just ... For both their sakes, my lady, would you consider being careful?"

And for his sake, for theirs and for his, Arya gave that the consideration it deserved.

"I won't force him," she said finally. "I won't rush him, either. I don't want to hurt him, or make him unhappy. If he needs to wait, we'll wait. Even if it's forever. So long as he loves me, it doesn't matter."

Tyrion blew out a breath at that. Half relief, she thought, and half something else. She let him have it either way.

"You're wrong, you know," she said, and he blinked warily at her again. She shook her head carefully, and tried a softer, more genuine sort of smile. "That you're not a good man. You're wrong." She inclined her head to him, and moved to leave once more. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, little lion. Thank you for your advice. I will keep it in mind."

"... You're welcome," he managed bemusedly. And Arya liked that, even still.

Even in her weakness, she did like having an effect.


	8. Weary Viciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen finally have words. They have a few things in common with each other. Old horrors and a pair of men not least of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one came out a little long. I've been wanting these two to confront each other for pretty much the entire fic.

Daenerys had floated after Jon had left. All night, all morning, she had floated on a cloud of lightness and fierce, determined hope. An indulgence, she knew that. A frivolity. Yet she couldn't help it. He loved her still. She couldn't _help_ it.

Tyrion had done nothing to discourage it, either. When he'd come to her that morning. He'd seemed tired, seemed wary, seemed even a little dazed at times, but he hadn't tried to dent her joy. He'd smiled for it instead. Small and cautious, with worry behind his eyes for the prices yet to be paid, but he'd let himself smile for her happiness. He'd stepped cautiously around it, and seemed almost like he wished he could defend it.

His romantic streak, Dany knew. He was a cynical creature, her Hand, but she'd seen his yearning for finer, softer things enough times regardless. She'd seen his loyalty, his passion, his devotion. How he fought not to show them, knowing how dangerous they could be and how little they would be valued, and how they slipped out of him regardless. For all his easy words of sacrificing love, when it came to it she thought he often failed to do so. There was a reason he still fought for his brother. There was a reason Sansa Stark could so easily woo him to her side.

There was a reason he hadn't asked her to let Jon go the moment they'd discovered his parentage. There was a reason he'd fought for their love, rather than see either of them step aside, or go to war for their throne.

Not that Jon would. He'd promised, he'd bent the knee and sworn, and Dany believed him. Any other man who'd claimed he didn't want the throne, she would have doubted, but not Jon Snow. He was a blunt, honest thing, her northern king, and he had only one true priority in this world: to defend his home and his family from those who threatened them. Tyrion was right. He'd take a throne out of duty or out of love, but he'd never fight for one for its own sake. 

Not even if he had the better claim, and for more reasons than just his father's name.

Tyrion hadn't mentioned that yet. Neither had anyone else, of course, but Daenerys knew there was little enough reason for most of them to think of it. Jon's parentage was still a closely kept secret, and none of the others who held it had much interest in seeing him sit a southern throne as anything but a last resort. He was still a Stark to them. None of them cared about a _Targaryen_ dynasty, or thought much about what Jon's duty to such a dynasty might be.

Tyrion knew, though. He'd have thought of it. He'd asked her enough times what her plans for the realm after her death might be. He, of all of them, would have realised that Jon Snow was not only her brother's trueborn heir, but also the last remaining _fertile_ Targaryen.

Jon Snow was the last hope for the Targaryen bloodline not to end with her. And only, _only_ , if she didn't marry him. If she let him go, released him from his love for her, and bid him father children of his own.

She had thought of that. She had. In those first, sick hours when Jon had realised who he was, and turned from her in horror because of it. The days afterwards, while he wrestled with it. Dany had thought of that. Had attempted to console herself with it, the thought that perhaps his rejection might in the end better serve them both. That whether he loved her or not, he would still be family, and that he alone could see to it that neither of them were the last.

If she'd been fertile, she could have loved him, could have married him as their ancestors had married each other for centuries. But she wasn't. Not anymore. And therefore, knowing that, duty would demand she let him go. 

Yet Tyrion hadn't asked it of her. Her sly, cynical, political Hand. This entire morning, watching her happiness. He hadn't asked.

Was it only tiredness, she wondered? Or something else?

Perhaps it had been fairness, not to ask her to sacrifice her love when he now fought so adamantly for his. Perhaps it had been despair, hoping for them to have some happiness before the Night King destroyed them all. Perhaps it had been more cynical than that. Perhaps he hoped that love might spur her to fight all the harder, to defend to her family against annihilation. Not without cause. Dany had never in her life had more reasons to fight than in this moment. 

Or perhaps it had been darker. He _was_ a cynical thing, her Hand, for all his romanticism. Perhaps he had simply sought to keep them from killing each other. Perhaps he still feared her ruthlessness and her desire for her throne, after the Tarlys, and encouraged her love to keep her from viewing Jon as a threat. Jon's claim to the throne was better than hers, after all, by both the past and the future of his blood. And Tyrion loved the Starks. Even before Sansa had made her move to claim him for them, he had spoken of them with warmth and respect. He'd admired them. He'd fought for them. He'd pushed for this alliance all along.

He loved them. She thought perhaps he'd always loved them. Something about them drew him to defend them. And Dany thought she knew what it was.

 _You're my family,_ Jon had said. _By blood and by choice, you're my family. I'll not betray that again._

To be shown such loyalty from family. To be offered such honour. How could anyone not want it? How could anyone not yearn to be a part of it? Dany's brother had sold her, had been willing to whore her to an entire army if it came to it. Tyrion's father had driven him to kinslaying, and for a creature as loyal as her Hand that was no mean feat. They had both seen the loyalty and fierce protectiveness the remaining Starks showed each other. How could either of them fail to be drawn to them?

How could either of them fail to love them?

It might not be worth it, in the end. Do you sacrifice love for the realm, or the realm for love? How many future problems were they inviting, by loving who they loved? How many prices were they lining up to be paid?

But they would fight for it, either way. Dany knew that now. She couldn't let Jon go. Not while he loved her still. Not for all the thrones in all the world. And she didn't imagine Tyrion could keep himself from fighting for them either. Or ... Or her. He'd told her first. He'd begged her leave. He'd planned it, of course, he'd structured it and arranged it to be convincing, but still. He hadn't simply sold her. He hadn't simply betrayed her. Jon had a better claim, Jon was the brother of the woman he loved, and yet Tyrion hadn't betrayed her.

There was more to loyalty than family and fealty, kings and claims. She had learned that in Essos. From Missandei, from Grey Worm, from Slaver's Bay. There were those who would fight for you simply because you fought for them first. There were those who would love you simply because you'd been someone worth loving. The blood you shed together was as valuable as the name you bore or the blood that ran in your veins. 

Her Hand had not betrayed her. And she would not betray him either.

She needed to speak to Sansa Stark, she thought. For more reasons than one. She had pledged herself to Jon's family, now. She had promised to defend them as her own. She'd seen the way Sansa watched her warily. If the only other queen she'd known had been Cersei, Dany couldn't blame her for that. And Sansa Stark could be dangerous. She had _survived_ Cersei Lannister, and Ramsay Bolton as well. Sansa was the North and the Starks personified. It would do no harm for Daenerys to reassure her of her intentions. 

And it would do no harm to gauge hers in response. Towards Daenerys and her throne, and towards her Hand as well. Cynical, romantic thing that he was.

Yes, she thought, the decision crystallising inside her. Yes. She should speak with Sansa Stark.

It took her some time to find her way. She'd never ventured directly into Sansa's territory before. The balance of power lay uneasily between herself and Lady Stark at Winterfell, and Daenerys had not yet been willing to tip it one way or the other. Not while Jon still wavered, in shock and horror at the lies that had been made of his life. The Night King marched upon them, her dead child a resurrected slave to his will. She would do _nothing_ to jeopardise their ability to fight him, to avenge that horrific crime against her and her family. While Jon still floundered, she could not have afforded to test his family unduly. 

She'd left that duty to Tyrion, who knew them better, and could phrase things more kindly.

She could have summoned Sansa to her, she knew. She could have sent word, and requested that the woman visit her in her chambers instead. It might have been better than invading the woman's territory. But Dany had seen Cersei Lannister now. She had heard her Hand's stories. She knew well that a private summons from a queen would not be reassuring to Sansa Stark. It would be a display of power instead, a heavy-handed tactic of power and intimidation. That was not how she wished to start this conversation.

Besides. From what little enough Dany had seen of Sansa Stark since they'd arrived in Winterfell, she seemed a woman who would rather stand on her own ground and fight than be tugged around on the whims of others. She was a stern, cold creature now, fierce in her power and her protection of her home. Daenerys could respect that. As dangerous as it was in a potential enemy, she could grant it the respect it was due.

It would better show the truth of her intentions, as well. Sansa did not strike her as someone who could be cowed into admission, not after all she had survived. But _goaded_ to it ...

Well. They would see what they would see, wouldn't they?

She was directed to Sansa's solar at last. It seemed the woman hardly left it anymore. She and Tyrion both spent hours there, when they weren't speaking to a thousand people about a thousand things. Wars were difficult things to arrange, especially when enemies were many and alliances tentative. Daenerys had some experience of that as well.

Sansa looked up at her the moment she arrived with her bloodriders. Her blue eyes widened, slightly, as she took Daenerys in, and then her expression smoothed over like a still pond. She stood to her feet, slowly and warily, and inclined her head straight-backed in mingled respect and defiance. 

"Your grace," she said quietly. "Forgive me. I hadn't expected you."

Daenerys didn't answer, for a moment. She stood in the doorway and studied the woman instead. Looking for the sister Jon loved, maybe, the family she now shared him with. That wasn't something she had much experience looking for, however. She tried to see what Tyrion so admired instead, the strength and the courage he had spoken of. 

That, she found more easily. Though kindness was yet to be seen.

"... Forgive me also," she started eventually, as Sansa's eyes began to tighten in warning. Dany shook her head, and offered largely genuine apology. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Lady Stark. I'd hoped we might have a conversation."

She saw Sansa's eyes flicker there, saw that she knew what this 'conversation' must be about. The woman didn't flinch, though. Her expression hardened briefly instead, and smoothed again into calm determination. No queens would intimidate Sansa Stark any longer. No royalty would keep her from the defense of her family.

Oh, but Daenerys did respect that. She really, truly did.

"Of course, your grace," Lady Stark said mildly. Coming out around her desk, gesturing towards the pair of chairs by the fire. A friendly gesture, save that her eyes were wary and cool and not inviting at all. "Won't you join me?"

"Thank you," Dany said, offering a bland smile of her own as she did so. "I truly am sorry for disturbing you. With the Night King on the march, I know there's little enough rest for any of us."

Sansa's smile turned dark. "It's familiar to me now," she said, with a sort of hollow, threatening honesty. "The Starks have been at war for years now, your grace. I'm not sure any of us have truly slept since our father died. And while it is good to be home, for Winterfell to be ours again, I fear it will be some time before I rest easily again within these walls." Her expression flickered slightly, a brief war of hope and despair. "Should we survive that long, of course."

Daenerys blinked slightly. She hadn't expected such bald honesty. She felt herself respond to it, though. Bait or no bait, she answered that as something deep inside her felt it deserved.

"I spent most of my early life on the run," she said. "I lost everything. I watched my brother lose himself, become cruel and vicious in his quest for power. I let him sell me, to try and buy it back. It didn't work. We lost everything again, he and I both. I have spent all my life fighting to get back what was lost to me. My home. My family. I know what it is to have enemies at every turn, my lady. I know what it is not to sleep for what a father's death has cost you. I know what it is to fight to take back what is yours, and to protect what little family remains to you. And I am _still here_. Still fighting. And so are you. Don't despair just yet."

There was a flare of anger and offense for that. Just a flash of temper. Then Sansa cooled again, and studied her more thoughtfully.

"... I said nothing of despair," she said finally. "Only the truth. We may not survive this. We may not have the strength, no matter all our courage or preparation. There is no shame in acknowledging that. It doesn't mean I do not intend to fight."

Dany smiled. Genuinely, this time. "So I see," she said, and in approval. "You have the same strength as your brother. I can see why Jon relies on you."

Sansa's eyes narrowed there. The same way Tyrion's did sometimes. Wondering if a compliment was a threat. Wondering if it meant they had been singled out for removal, or some other unpleasantness based on this supposed virtue of theirs. Her eyes were ripe with such suspicion. Daenerys knew it too. She had learned it under Viserys, and a few other people since then. A compliment could be a very dangerous, backhanded thing. But she had meant hers genuinely.

"He tells me about you," she went on, going for honesty rather than reassurance just yet. It wouldn't be believed. "He loves you. All of you. He tells me of your courage, of your strength. Of his sorrow that you needed them. That he spent so many years unable to help you, unable to keep you safe. He regrets that deeply."

"He couldn't help it," Sansa answered harshly. A challenge, defiance in every line of her. "He bled enough on the Wall. Without him, we would never have been as prepared as we are for the Night King. The North is more important than our family. The lives of every man, woman and child in this land depend on our victory in this war."

Daenerys didn't blink. "I know," she said quietly. "We all do. But he regrets it anyway. I don't think there's any duty that can keep us from loving our family, or regretting when they're hurt."

Sansa frowned at her. Beyond suspicious now. "Why are you here, your grace?" she asked softly. Dangerously. "To tell me that Jon is your family now too? To tell me that you love him, and that his pain hurts you? To tell me that you would put your duty aside for him?"

And there was poison running beneath the words. Old pain, old suspicion, ripe and virulent when she looked at Dany. A woman who'd been sold too many times. Oh, Daenerys felt pride for her all right, even as Jon did. Admiration, even as Tyrion. But she felt pity, too, and more than a hint of caution. Sansa Stark was a dangerous thing, these days. Wounded creatures often were. Daenerys needed to know how she would strike.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm here to tell you that. I do love Jon. He is my family. I will fight for him. And yes. If it comes to it, I will put aside my duty for him. I will put aside my throne. He is _family_. Family I had thought lost, family I had thought _destroyed_. I fought for the throne because it was the only thing I had left, the only thing the last family I ever knew had wanted. It was my home, my birthright, and I wanted it. I never once thought that I might find family instead. I never once thought to hope that there were any remaining. I thought I would live and die as the last Targaryen, with only the last dragons in the world to be my legacy."

And it came out wrong. It came out too strongly, too raw. Dany hadn't come here to reveal quite that much weakness that quickly. But Sansa had started it. Sansa had opened with blunt and ragged honesty. And Dany wanted to say this in terms a Stark might understand.

Besides. One must present the appearance of weakness to goad an enemy to strike.

"I loved Jon before I knew he was my family," she went on, somewhat more calmly while Sansa looked at her with narrow, thoughtful eyes. "I loved him because he offered me honest sorrow, honest compassion. My child died beyond that Wall. The Night King took him. And Jon, though he nearly died himself, offered me sorrow for that with the first words out of his mouth. I loved him then. And now he's my family as well. The one I had thought lost. And despite his duty and his honour he loves me still. Oh yes. I will fight for him, Sansa Stark. I will burn the world to keep him safe. I promise you."

And there was threat in that too. Sansa would hear it as such. Another goad. But though she straightened herself in the face of it, she did not flinch, and she did not blindly strike.

"And what of his other family?" she asked softly instead. "What of the family that raised him, that held him as its own, that loved him? What of the family _he_ saw destroyed, what of the family _he_ fought for?" She tilted her head, a dark, bleak smile on her face. "Are you willing to let him fight for it still, Daenerys Targaryen? Or would you rather it died, so that he would not risk himself for its sake?"

Dany smiled at that. A little bleakly herself. She let out a breath, and leaned herself gingerly back in her seat.

"Do you really think he would love me if I did?" she asked gently. "Do you think he could love anyone who let his family die? Or that they would be _worth_ loving, if they were willing to wound him so? He's already watched you all die once. I don't think he could bear it again."

Sansa nodded. "I know," she said calmly. "So. You'll be willing to tolerate us for his sake, then? You're willing to indulge his loyalty to the North, in exchange for his love and his loyalty towards you?"

A sweet question, softly asked. Weariness and resignation. If only those blue eyes weren't quite so watchful. Daenerys smiled grimly.

"No," she said, and watched those eyes flicker and narrow. "Not toleration. Not exchange. The sorrow he offered me for my child was genuine. The promise he gave me for my throne was in earnest. It was not a bargain. He did not _tolerate_ my loves, my hopes and my wants. He supported them. He loves me _for_ them. For the fact that I am what I am, and still can love. I will not tolerate his family. I will _defend_ them, as he defends mine. I will burn the Night King to ash. I will avenge my child. Then I will take the Iron Throne, and I will use it to defend him, and all that he loves. He won't ask me to. Alone of any man I might have asked to be my king, Jon Snow will not ask it of me. That's what makes the choice so easy, in the end."

And Sansa didn't answer that, not for a long, long moment. Sansa studied her. The Lady of Winterfell, as cold and as dangerous as the North itself. Sansa weighed her words with a lifetime of betrayal behind her.

"... Is he really worth a throne?" she asked eventually. Not a genuine question. Dany didn't doubt that Jon was worth a thousand thrones to the woman in front of her. It was only a test, instead. One last little test. She nodded.

"Something has to be," she said. "I knew that in Meereen. I knew what power was worth, because I could see what it accomplished. The people it freed, the cycle of injustice it left shattered. I forgot that, coming here. Ask Tyrion. I let it slip away, because I wanted what was mine. But Jon reminded me. Thrones don't mean anything to him. His people do. I needed to remember that. And I'm grateful he loved me in spite of it."

She said that honestly. Calmly, too. She had forgotten, though Tyrion had done his best to remind her. Many, many times. She'd read it as squeamishness, at times. Borderline betrayal at others. He'd said it anyway. And she hadn't always listened, not properly, because she hadn't loved him. Not like Jon. Not enough to put her throne aside for his sake.

She was sorry for that, now. Not all of it. He hadn't always been right. Some things required more ruthlessness than her Hand had left to give. But some of it, yes. She was sorry.

Sansa looked at her like she could see that. She didn't _trust_ it, Daenerys would have been very surprised if she had, but she looked like she could at least see it. And she answered it, as Dany had answered her blunt honesty earlier.

"He's good at that," she said, fiercely but tiredly. "He's an idiot, sometimes. He does things without thinking them through. But he has honour. He's always had honour. People know that. They fight for him because they know he will never betray them. They fight for him because they know he is a king they can _trust_."

Dany pressed her lips together, her eyes stinging slightly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I know."

Sansa accepted that. She thought about it for a minute. Then she stood, carefully, and moved to stand by the mantlepiece, fixing her eyes on the cold winter light through the shutters.

"You're going to take him away," she said. Calmly. Quite calmly. "You're going to marry him, and make him your king, and bring him south to stand him among lions and jackals and vipers. Honour doesn't last long in King's Landing, your grace. I know that all too well."

"Then I will guard it for him," Dany said, with cool, deadly promise from her chair. After all these years, she knew the lions and the jackals and the vipers too. All too well. She could deal with them as they deserved, and trust Jon to remind her when to stop. "I will keep him safe, and do what is necessary to ensure they cannot change him."

Sansa dipped her head at that, a strange, wry huff coming from her. "He will not thank you for it," she warned softly. "Honour can be blind that way. Jon is a good man. It may hurt him, when you can't always afford to be the same."

And oh, there was such a tired, bleak grief in that. A gaping weariness. A neat match, for the one she sometimes saw in Tyrion as well. A bright hatred sprang up in Dany then. For the wheel, vicious and spoked, turning on and on and on, and grinding them beneath it. She would stop it yet. She would break it. She swore that. They would win their wars, herself and Jon. They would take their throne. And then they would _break_ it, and use it to build something better. They would do that, or by the gods they would die trying.

"... Not all honour is so brittle," she said at last. "Not all honour dies in King's Landing, either. Not for lack of trying, maybe, but some of it survives. Only a small part. But enough, perhaps, for some."

Oblique, perhaps, but there was no need to always be direct with this woman. Sansa understood it. She stiffened, and raised her head in answer to it.

"Ah," she said, and returned herself to her seat with regal dignity. "I did wonder when we might come to this, your grace."

Dany arched an eyebrow at her. "If you can interrogate me over mine," she said mildly, "it follows that I might interrogate you over yours. Given that he _is_ my Hand, and I will undoubtedly yet have need of him."

Something complicated flickered through the woman's cool expression there. Dany wasn't sure what it was. Something sad, anyway. Something hard and cold and resigned.

"You will," Sansa agreed coolly. "You will need him. If anyone can help keep both you and Jon alive in that pit of serpents, it's your Hand. If you mean to take the Iron Throne and survive it, there's no one better you could have at your side. Tyrion is loyal, and he's seen the worst that place has to offer. He will serve you well."

Daenerys stared at her. Not at the ... at the loyalty, necessarily, but at the bitterness of it. At the weary viciousness. She couldn't be sure of the cause just yet. She leaned forward, and set to testing it warily. 

"You don't sound enthused," she commented. "Is it that you don't want to lose him? You would rather he remained here, in the North, with you?"

Sansa grimaced. "I would like nothing better," she admitted readily. "I would sooner see _all_ of you stay here, and let that place cheerfully slide into the sea. That cannot happen, though. I'm not so foolish that I don't know that. If you would have the Iron Throne, if you would keep us safe by it, then you must go to King's Landing. And you must bring someone with you who knows how to survive it."

Dany eyed her thoughtfully. "And that person must be Tyrion?" she asked mildly. "I'm sure there are some few other southerners of virtue. Need it be your future husband who guides me?"

Alarm flared in Sansa's eyes. And then _hardness_ , something on the bright border of hatred.

"Why?" she asked darkly. "Have you tired of him already, your grace? Is the little man not funny enough anymore?"

Daenerys shook her head. "My Hand has proven himself to me a thousand times," she said slowly. "I value his advice. I do not always agree with it, but I _value_ it. I value his loyalty as well, and his courage. He says things as he sees them. That is a rare thing in a man who has such experience of power. I am not inclined to discard that."

Sansa's shoulders eased slightly, though the hardness in her expression did not vanish. "Forgive me," she said, with an edge that did not beg forgiveness at all. "You would not be the first king or queen to cast him aside. And most in my experience do it _because_ of his honesty, not in spite of it."

Dany narrowed her eyes, but nodded. "I know," she said. "He's told me of his nephew. And his sister as well, though she was only Queen Mother then. I would hope, for my _own_ sake, to be a better ruler than either of them." 

He had not told her everything. Tyrion. He skirted carefully around so much of it. She'd seen it anyway. In his hesitance, his carefulness, his flinches. In the courage it took him to stand in front of her, and the sort of despairing optimism with which he dared it anyway. In the bitterness and the viciousness that lurked in him at times, the flares of angry defiance that emerged from time to time. He'd been broken, when he'd come to her. He'd been glib and daring and _broken_. And he had not entirely recovered from that either.

For that reason, as much as any, she was disinclined to share him with any woman who might break him further still.

Though she began to think that Sansa had a similar concern. They shared much of the same bleakness, when she looked at them. She didn't know if Sansa loved him, as he both hoped and feared she might. She didn't know if Sansa might be using him either, even in spite of that. He'd said himself she had the courage for it, and the ruthlessness. She might love him and use him anyway. She had learned too well that sometimes you might not always have a choice.

But if she couldn't use him. If he had nothing left. What then, oh Lady of Winterfell?

"He was a slave when he came to me," she said abruptly. Coldly, sitting back in her seat. Sansa stiffened in response, and Dany smiled at her. "Did you know that? I found him in the fighting pits, along with a man who had betrayed me, and sought to regain my favour by bringing me one of my enemies. When he was brought before me, he had only his wits to keep me from killing him. Does that surprise you?"

Sansa glared at her, breathing carefully through her nose. "It does not," she said coldly. Nothing else. Just that. Daenerys nodded coolly, and continued. 

"I took him as an advisor," she said. "Because he was clever, and he amused me, and I wanted information on the land of my birthright. It didn't hurt me, you see. I knew I could simply kill him when he betrayed me. He had nothing. He had no one. He would live or die by my will and my will alone. And he knew it."

Sansa's blue eyes stared hatred at her. "I'm sure he did," she said. "He's quite used to it by now. When I knew him I thought I was alone in knowing that. Then I saw how quickly his family killed him, when he could no longer prove his use to them."

And here was the bitterness again. The loyalty and the weary viciousness. But Daenerys did need to be sure.

"If he lost my favour tomorrow," she said softly. "If I put my faith in myself and my king and decided I no longer needed a Hand. If he came to you as he came to me, with only his wits ... would you still be so interested in this marriage, Lady Sansa?"

Her hands were clenched on her lap. Her eyes were bright and bitter. "You would throw him away to test that?" she asked icily. "All the service and loyalty he has offered you, and you would throw it away to be sure of _me_?"

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer," she noted mildly. Sansa _snarled_ at her.

"Then have this one," she snapped. "He protected me when I had nothing, when I was alone among enemies and any one of them might have killed me or tortured me at any time. If he had never been anywhere near you, if he had arrived out of a snowdrift in the night, I would have taken him. If you abandon him in the morning, if you cast him aside as _everyone else_ has cast him aside, I will take him still. And I will know you for what you are thereafter. I will know _exactly_ how deep runs the loyalty and honour of Daenerys Targaryen!"

Dany smiled at her, fierce and full of teeth. "I'm sure you will," she said. "And I suppose I would not fault you either. But understand, my lady. He _did_ come to me out of a snowdrift in the night. Or a slave pen, rather, at midday. He came to me with nothing, and I have watched him build himself back from that point. I have watched him dare me, challenge me, pledge his loyalty to me. He is a bitter, cynical little man, my Hand, but he _is_ loyal. And I do not reward loyalty by selling my people to someone else."

Sansa brought herself up short at that. She leaned back, a flare of consideration in her eyes. Her temper cooled, and that hard, cool challenge slipped back behind her eyes.

"Do you _value_ him?" she asked, in blatant disbelief, and it was only the knowledge of her previous kings and queens that kept Daenerys from growling at her in turn. She nodded sharply instead.

"I do," she said flatly. "I do not name strange, drunken little men my Hand on a whim. He has proven himself to me, or he would not be here. And I will not see him used. Not like that. I was sold into marriage too."

Sansa blinked rapidly at that. She licked her lips and nodded carefully. "As was I," she said, and there was that gaping thing in her voice again, and that fierceness too. "I would not do that to him. I would not do it to anyone. I don't care what he is, your grace. I don't care if he is the most powerful man in all the land or a ... a drunken slave. I care that he had _honour_ where no one else did. I care that he protected me, for no better reason than that I needed it, and he could grant it to me at least a little. I care that he is good, and loyal, and trustworthy. That I can love him, and he can love me. He was my husband, once. I have learned since then that he was a much better one than I understood at the time."

And Daenerys met her eyes, and nodded carefully in her turn.

"Then I wish you luck," she said quietly. "I wish you all the best of your marriage, Lady Sansa. I gave Tyrion my blessing for it. I will not rescind it now."

Sansa's breath went out of her, a sigh of deep, abiding relief. Real relief, and tentative, honest happiness, such as Tyrion had guarded worriedly for Dany in her turn. She blew out her own breath then. She let the hardness fade from her expression, and leaned wearily back in her chair.

"I wish us _both_ luck," she said, with weary, wry amusement. Looking at Sansa, catching those blue eyes when they looked to her more openly. "I have a feeling we shall both need it, Lady Stark."

"... Sansa," the lady said tiredly, with some amusement herself. "Call me Sansa, your grace. Jon loves you. We're going to be family shortly."

Dany blinked, genuinely surprised. And then she smiled. 

"Dany," she said. "Your brother calls me Dany. I don't normally allow it. The last man to call me that before him was my brother, as my husband killed him. But you're right. Jon is family. And through him, so are you."

Sansa nodded quietly. She turned her head again, towards that chink of winter light in the windows. "We might still die," she said softly. "It's the truth, not despair. The dead are coming. We might all die." She looked back at Dany again. "I'm going to fight, your grace. For my family, for my husband. I'm going to fight however I can. I'm glad you're fighting with us. And I hope you and your children do not die for it."

It was honest, Dany thought. It was an earnest prayer.

"We won't," she promised quietly. "We will not die. None of us. We will burn the Night King from the world, and not a single one of us shall die."

And Sansa smiled at her with weary viciousness, and did not disagree.


	9. Plans and Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the threat of the Night King looming, Sansa moves to gather her family and their loves together at least once before war falls finally upon them. She goes to Dany first. And then to Gendry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite the chapter people have been looking for, I think, but I'm trying to angle in towards some others. Also, Sansa did promise Arya she would talk to Gendry.

There was a strange sort of peace, Sansa thought, when battle was already joined. When all that was left was to win or lose, and there was no time left to worry about either. 

She'd been so scared during the Battle of the Blackwater. She remembered singing hymns uselessly to try and comfort herself, comfort everyone around her. She'd been a prisoner then, helpless either way. Fear and false comfort had been all she had. The Battle of the Bastards had been different. There'd been anger for that one. Horror, despair, ferocious determination. She'd been fighting then, not simply cowering. Her fear had transmuted to harder, angrier things. 

She felt those still. She nursed them close to her breast. But there were other things now. 

Family. Comfort. Triumph. Hard-won determination. All those things. But also more. Also peace, the sort that came from despair. To face the dead was not a war of victory or defeat, but a war of life or death. There would no captivity when it was done, no marriage. Only death, endless and soulless. That was a sort of comfort, in its way. They would win or they would die. There was nothing else to look for until it was done.

She could face death for her family, she thought. Death was a simple thing, really. She could face it as easily as anything else. Yet there was still some part of her that didn't think they were going to die. Not now. Not when they had finally come together again.

Not when she finally had her family beside her.

There was strength in that. Like their father had said, there was _strength_ in family. All the world might come for them, but at least they'd die by someone's side. Someone that loved them. Someone that cared. Someone that would fight to their last breath right alongside them.

There weren't many Starks left. Sansa swore now, on the blood of her father and her mother and her brothers, that those who remained would be bought very very dearly indeed.

And it wasn't just family, now. Or at least, not family by blood alone. There were allies. There were friends. There were lovers. Some ... some who were all three. People to protect. People to fight beside. People to trust with protection in their turn. They weren't alone anymore. None of them. The Starks did not fight this latest and greatest war alone.

She was glad to have finally spoken to Daenerys. She hadn't been sure what to make of the woman. She knew Arya had liked her, of course. Daenerys - _Dany_ \- had saved Jon, and ridden dragons to do it. Arya was naturally going to like her. And Jon, well. Jon was in love with her. He was never going to be an impartial judge. Sansa had feared, because of that. Jon wasn't that far from Robb at the end of it. People made mistakes because of love. They were blinded to things, and trusted when they shouldn't.

Daenerys wasn't Joffrey, though. She wasn't Cersei or Ramsay or Littlefinger. She was a hard woman, yes. She was a _dangerous_ woman, most definitely. But she didn't play games the way the others had. There was something in her that did match Jon well enough in some ways. A bluntness. She wasn't the sort to play games when there were more important things to be worried about.

And she hated the Night King. She was fire and she was fury, and she _hated_ the Night King. He had taken her child from her. As selfish as it was, Sansa was a little bit glad of that. Love wasn't always reliable, but there were few motivations as pure and unflinching as vengeance. Daenerys would see the Night King destroyed. Whatever happened after that, she would not falter in this war. She would see their enemy seared from the face of this world.

And after that, well. Perhaps her good sister would stand with them then as well. She did love Jon. Sansa had seen that too. Maybe when it came to it, Dany really wouldn't betray them.

Sansa hoped so. For Jon's sake. And for Tyrion's.

She needed to talk to them, she thought. Jon, and Tyrion. And Arya, and Bran, and Arya's Gendry too. Daenerys. She needed to talk to all of them. Before the Night King came, before war fell finally down on them and all that was left was to win or to die. They needed to come together, as a family, and talk. 

Davos should come too, then. And Sam. Brienne. Maybe Jaime. As much as Sansa didn't trust the man, he was Tyrion's brother, and Tyrion did love him still. The man would be her good brother, before too much longer. She probably should speak to him.

But family. Family first. Jon and Bran and Arya, Tyrion and Gendry and Dany. Then the others. Then the lords. There was much to arrange. But family first. And then the war.

Tonight. She would gather them all tonight. In Dany's rooms, maybe, if the queen was amenable. They could pretend it was a council of war, and they wouldn't be wrong, precisely. There would be much discussed and decided. Sansa wasn't blind. She knew they had all been making their own private promises for days now. It was time to have them in the open. It was time to come together, time to be family, and to make their promises for all to hear.

So. Dany first, then. Daenerys, to ask permission and agreeability. Or Tyrion? She should at least warn him, since she had set this all in motion for him. But ... No. Daenerys first. It was only good manners to warn the queen, and ask her alliance in this venture.

Then Jon, and likely Davos. The old knight was sensible and kindhearted, and not inclined to bandy secrets about. It would do no harm to have him there. Or Brienne, she supposed. Then Arya, after that. If Sansa could find her. And then Gendry. She would need some time for that. She hadn't spoken to him yet. She would need to give him a few assurances, before she dropped the rest of the family on him. 

Then Bran. He was out in the weirwood again. Sansa wasn't sure how much of the last few days he'd borne witness to. His eyes were turned north these days. Hunting the Night King. But he was family. He should at least know these things.

And then Tyrion. That would give her time to ... to reassure him. Or persuade him. Or simply spend time with him. Yes. The others first. She would come to her husband last.

Right then. Daenerys should not have gone far. And with luck, she wouldn't yet have found her Hand's company again.

She hadn't. Sansa had barely left her solar when she found her, out on a walkway watching the sky. Looking for her children, perhaps? Sansa glanced skywards herself, and caught sight of one of them circling high above Winterfell. She didn't see the other.

"Rhaegal," Dany said quietly, spotting her. Sansa blinked at her, and she smiled sadly. "The dragon," she explained. "It's Rhaegal. He keeps watch for his brother, Viserion. They were together for a long time. Drogon was always closest to me. Rhaegal and Viserion clung to each other instead. Now Viserion is dead and turned against us. Enslaved by our enemy. Rhaegal keeps watch for him. Though whether to kill him or to try and save him, I don't yet know."

Sansa stared at her. And then she tipped her head back, and stared at the dragon as well. He was hard to see through the snow. Just a dark shape, circling through the emptiness overhead. A shadow searching for the brother he had lost.

Family. The remnants of a family. Sansa felt for them, suddenly. Hard and fierce and true.

"... I don't think there's any salvation for them except death," she said softly. Looking at Dany, letting the sorrow and regret fill her eyes. "The ones taken by the wights. From what Jon tells me, the only thing left for them is death. I'm sorry. If he wants to free his brother ..."

"I know," Dany said. Flatly. She turned away, to watch the sky, and wrapped her arms around her chest. "I know. I think they do too. He was taken from them. He was unmade. They know how to answer that. We all do."

... Yes, Sansa thought. Yes, she supposed they did at that.

"We will destroy him," she offered, knowing it was the only comfort likely to mean anything. "Once the Night King's dead they all go free. So we'll kill him. All of us. He threatens too much now. He's taken too much already. There's nothing left but to see him dead."

Daenerys looked at her, a storm behind her eyes, and then she smiled, and nodded quietly. "Yes," she said. "We shall see him dead. Yes."

It should have been frightening. Or shameful. But there was much to be relied upon in a promise of vengeance, when it was pointed at a shared enemy. And when those enemies were at the gate, Sansa thought, there would be few better to have by your side than this woman.

"... Would you do me a favour, your grace?" she asked. A little abruptly, maybe, but Daenerys took no offense. She only turned slightly, and looked curious instead.

"That would depend," she said, but only mildly. Sansa smiled crookedly at her.

"I hoped to gather my family tonight, your grace," she explained softly. "After the evening meal. Both ... Both old and new. We have much to explain to each other, I think. Myself, my sister, my brothers. You, your Hand. Davos and Brienne, and my sister's beloved as well. I ... I wondered if you might be amenable. And, if you were, if we might ... if we might perhaps gather in your chambers?"

Daenerys ... blinked at her for that. Nearly blankly. Sansa wasn't sure she'd ever seen such a stunned or unguarded expression on the woman's face. At the temerity? She didn't look angry, though. Or was it perhaps ...

"Family?" Daenerys asked quietly. So quietly. "You ... But why my chambers? Would it not be better in yours?"

Sansa shook her head. "Yours are bigger, to start," she said practically, and then hesitated a little, and explained the other reasons. "And as well, I want ... There are rumours. Questions of loyalty, in a good many directions. Perhaps it might prove something if you came to me, but I would prefer to present a united front before the North. I want to prove we value you, but also that we are not afraid to face you on your own ground. That you would welcome us even in force. If there are rumours about tonight, I want them to reflect that we came together, all of us, and spoke together as family. That we made decisions for a mutual good."

She hoped they _were_ making decisions for a mutual good. But Tyrion had plans. He'd told her that. And for all Jon's idiocy, neither he nor Daenerys had given her reason yet to doubt that he'd made a good and necessary choice. They'd needed allies, so desperately, and Daenerys had so far proven herself quite a good one. Marriage wasn't the worst way to seal it.

Especially not when they loved each other.

"... I want us to come together," she continued finally. Watching the woman, watching the play of expressions around those violet eyes. "I want to speak to my family, and my family's family. Now. Before the Night King comes to kill us all, or to die by our hand. I would have our promises known, your grace. Before we test them in fire and blood."

And Daenerys digested that for a moment, and Daenerys nodded slowly.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, you're right. We should make things known. We should know who it is we fight and die beside." She paused, and then added: "Might I make a suggestion, then? Jaime Lannister. You might summon him also. Your husband-to-be has plans for him yet."

Sansa grimaced, and nodded reluctantly in her turn. "I thought he might," she sighed. "But the man did come north, I suppose. He chose Tyrion in the end. I suppose I can't fault him for that."

Daenerys snorted. "He chose _life_ in the end," she corrected, not quite icily. "Whether he holds any loyalty beyond that remains to be seen. But my Hand loves him. Enough to shout in my face for his sake. If you would have family tonight, my lady, and all our promises in the open ... perhaps it might do no harm to invite him, and see what promises he might make in his turn."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, but nodded slowly. "All right," she said. "I suppose better to test him now than later. Though he may hide, when faced with all of us."

Dany smiled darkly at her. "Then perhaps you should waylay him personally first?" she asked sweetly. "Or I can, if you'd prefer. You have your family to gather, and it is my Hand he stands to honour or betray. I could collect him for you. If you'd like."

Sansa blinked, and then smiled blandly and sweetly back at her. She felt a warm little fizz of conspiracy. "That's all right, your grace," she said mildly. "He might be as intimidated by you as by all of us. I'm told I'm somewhat intimidating myself these days, but I suspect I'm less so than the Mother of Dragons. You can leave the one-handed lion to me. Let's leave him some room to be brave, hmm?"

Dany laughed. "A fair point," she conceded lightly. "All right. We'll leave Jaime Lannister to you, then. Shall I gather my Hand, instead?"

"No!" Sansa blurted, and too rapidly. Dany blinked at her, and she flushed a little in shame. She did not back down, however, and after a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of warmth and understanding in the other woman's eyes. Daenerys inclined her head with a tiny smile, and did not quibble further. Sansa flushed redly, and sought to deflect her. "You could ... You could gather my brother, though? If you had time. You could gather Jon and Davos for us."

Pure deflection, of course, but not a bad idea when she thought about it. Maybe Arya could gather Bran, too. That would leave time for Sansa to speak to Gendry and Jaime both, and for similar reasons as well. Yes. That might be a good plan after all.

Dany's smile did not abate, but she inclined her head more gently now. "If you wish it," she said, and oh. Sansa saw a hint of something there. Something gentler and warmer than the fire and fury and vengeance she had relied upon so far. There was a softer thing inside this woman. Something that might, truly _might_ , value Jon as he deserved to be valued.

"... I do," she said softly. Studying the woman with more open understanding. "Gather my brother for me, your grace. I'd be grateful."

And perhaps Daenerys heard something of the weight of it, the warmth and the permission of it. She tilted her head, eyes wide and startled, and studied Sansa intently for a moment. Then she stood back a step, and offered Sansa a slight bow.

"And I would be honoured," she said, and straightened with a smile to hold Sansa's stunned eyes warmly. "I will happily take the excuse to see your brother again, my lady. Shall we, then? I to hunt mine, and you to hunt yours?"

Sansa blinked a bit. "I'm not sure 'hunt' is the word you should be using," she said faintly. "But yes. You to yours, and me to mine. Good luck, your grace."

"To you first," Dany grinned. "You'll need it more. Until tonight, Sansa Stark. Good luck!"

As she left, she took one last look skywards, towards her dragon. Her child. Then she brought her eyes back to earth, and looked to Sansa's brother as well. Family. Old family and new. Oh yes, Sansa thought. Yes, they did need to speak. They did have a job to do.

So then. Arya, first. Arya she could send to fetch Bran. Maybe Brienne along with her. Then to Gendry. Then to Jaime. 

Then to Tyrion.

She had a long afternoon ahead of her indeed. Best get to it, then.

Arya and Brienne were easily found, at least. They'd been training together more ardently since Jon had returned with Daenerys. The dead were coming. None of them were content to be idle. Sansa found them in one of the training courtyards, both fierce-faced and grinning, their movements quick and decisive and brutal as they danced around each other. Unfortunately, they had an audience as well. Pod and Bronn and Jaime Lannister, and Tyrion too. Oh, _bugger_ it. But all right. All right. Sansa could still work with this.

They'd be busy for a while. Arya wasn't close to finished yet, and knowing Brienne they'd take some time to improve the others before they left. Pod, at least. And both she and Arya seemed to want to put manners on Bronn. Yes. They might give her a bit of time yet.

Gendry first, then. While they were busy. Gendry first. There was no harm in that. She had promised Arya she'd reassure him. Now was as good a time as any.

And he would need reassurance. Jon had apparently managed the start of one, about as publicly as possible, but she meant for the boy to face the rest of their family tonight. He was probably going to need some fairly potent reassurance for _that_.

Was this cruel of her, she wondered idly? Would it be more cruel than kind to invite him? But Arya would want it. Jon, too, she thought. He had stood and announced his approval of their courtship before all of Winterfell, after all. He would want Gendry to be present. And, well. There would be no calmer moment after this. There was only war from here on out. If they were intimidating now, they were only going to get more so. Better to do it to him now, when he had better chance of surviving it.

She nodded to herself. Yes. Better now than later. All right.

She turned around, and headed back to the smithy courtyards. They were doing good work, actually, given the weight of the demand on them, and the strangeness of the dragonglass. She and Tyrion had been tracking that. The Dothraki had been the first priority, given that they were likely to be the first line of running defense, and the smiths had managed to outfit almost all of them so far. The ones in Winterfell, at least. They were now well on their way to arming the Unsullied and the Northern households as well. They'd done well under pressure. She might do well to pause and mention that, while she was here.

They turned to look at her, as well. Work paused as she appeared, and the entire courtyard eyed her warily. Was that Jon's doing, she wondered idly? He had made a fine show yesterday. Well then. She could add to it today.

"I'd like to thank you all," she said, loudly and clearly into the blooming silence. "Our forces are nearly completely armed, thanks to your work. When we face the armies of the dead, we will do so with your weapons in our hands, and I have no doubt we will triumph. You've done well, and under a great deal of pressure. You have the eternal thanks of House Stark for that. And indeed the North, and all living men who hope to see another day. I thank you."

People glanced at each other. Warily, worriedly. And then wryly, with a certain amount of faith and good humour.

"You'll forgive me for saying so, my lady," one older man started, "but most of us do count ourselves among those living men. I think we all know it's win or die in this fight. We'll do our part, your ladyship. We'll make sure the North doesn't fall, nor anything else behind us. You have our word on that, and gladly."

Sansa drew a breath, and smiled at him. "I have no doubt," she said warmly. Looking around the courtyard, taking in every northern and southern face among them. "I won't lie to you. It is win or die. There's no retreat from this. If we lose here, then all the world falls. But we're not going to lose. Not again. This place is my home, and I _will not_ lose it again. No army of the dead is going to change that. We're going to fight. North and south, man, woman and child, and dragon too. We're going to fight, and we're going to win. For ourselves, and for our families, and for all those who helped us, and all those who didn't as well. And when we do, I promise you, we will remember those who stood beside us."

And they would, too. If she had to write down every name herself. Even if there would be reward for it beyond living to see the next dawn, she would ensure that all who fought for them in the long night would be remembered.

The old smith looked at her, and the old smith saw that. He must have, some little bit, because he bowed to her. He bowed, and all around him bowed as well. And it was wrong. It was so wrong. She wasn't a king or a queen, she was only barely a lady after Ramsay had been through with her. This, this sort of thing, this was for Jon and Dany, not for her. But she was of the North. She was Sansa Stark. So she bowed back, and offered her fealty in exchange for theirs.

Win or die. Victory or death, and they _weren't_ alone anymore. No one here would face this greatest war alone.

"I, ah. I'm looking for Gendry Waters, as well," she said, when they'd all straightened up. "I need to speak with him, regarding ... Well. The matter my sister and my brother discussed yesterday. Does anyone know where I can find him?"

Expressions wobbled, at that, wariness creeping back, and protectiveness along with it. It would seem the boy was well regarded, and not just by Sansa's family. No one offered him up. It was the boy himself who stepped tiredly out to meet her.

Or young man, rather. Not a boy anymore. He winced, at the sight of her. Ducked his head to avoid meeting her eyes. But he stood forward, and announced himself readily.

"I'm Gendry, your ladyship," he said. "I'm here. No need to look further for me."

He looked so nervous, Sansa thought. Exactly as Arya had said. Not even Jon's public approval seemed to have dented it much. But it was her he was afraid of. If Arya was right. It was her, and _her_ disapproval, that Gendry feared the most.

She still wasn't sure why. She was neither king nor queen, as she'd said. The Lady of Winterfell, yes, but if both Jon and Arya both claimed him publicly, she was hardly going to gainsay them. 

Though that wouldn't have stopped Cersei, she admitted. Joffrey's approval or lack of it, or Robert's either. Cersei would just have gotten rid of him quietly when no one was looking. An accident. People had those. No one would have had to know, even if most of them might have suspected it afterwards. But Sansa wasn't Cersei. That wasn't the sort of thing she would stoop to. And she would never hurt her family that way.

Not that he'd know that, maybe. But that was what she was here to explain to him.

"You don't need to look so worried," she said, a bit more quietly, but still loud enough for those worried about him to hear. "I'm sorry to disturb you at your work. I simply needed to speak to you before tonight."

He twitched warily. "Tonight?" he asked. Sansa bit her lip, and gestured to a sheltered corner of the courtyard. Not privacy, but at least some semblance of it. And he could still be seen, and those around him could reassure themselves that she hadn't ... what, eaten him? Cut him to ribbons for daring to love her sister? Regardless. 

She caught the eye of the elder smith once more, and he gruffly gestured for the rest of the courtyard to get back to work once more. Hammers started up, the ring of metal and the dry snap of flaking dragonglass. It would be enough to cover their conversation.

He followed her over readily enough as well. More in resignation than hope, perhaps, but he at least had the courage of his convictions. He stood squared when she turned to him, his chin raised even as his eyes cast down in deference. He still had his hammer with him. For some reason, maybe only that she had just come from Daenerys Targaryen, but Sansa didn't read that as a threat. More absent-mindedness than anything.

"You really don't need to worry," she said, letting herself soften slightly. She'd armoured up to face her people, she realised. Maybe he had had reason to be leery of her. She let herself soften now. She let her shoulders slump, and leaned towards him slightly, enough that he finally raised his eyes. She smiled encouragingly at him. "Arya spoke to me, before even Jon. They both trust you. They both love you. You have nothing to fear from me."

He bit his lip. He didn't believe her, she could see that. She could see him deciding how much he dared say so, as well.

"... I know I'm not of the right blood, your ladyship," he said quietly. A little sideways to the point. "I'm nothing a lady like Arya deserves. I'd hoped ... I had hoped to earn it. To fight for her, for her family. To prove ..."

His voice failed him, his chin dropping back down onto his chest, and Sansa felt a strange creak in her chest. She wondered, idly, if she'd looked like that when Cersei questioned her. If she'd looked so scared, and shamed, and ready to take a blow. She must have, she thought. She knew the feelings far too well for it to be otherwise.

"... Do you know what my sister deserves?" she asked quietly. Dangerously, maybe, with something dark and broken running beneath it. 

He looked up at her in alarm. Gendry Waters. Her sister's beloved. He looked at her with worry, and slowly shook his head. Sansa laughed bleakly. She reached out, and touched her hand lightly to arm still holding his hammer. He seemed to realise it then. He dropped the thing hurriedly. It thumped, as it hit the mud and the snow, and Sansa smiled crookedly at him.

"She deserves someone who will love her," she answered, small and soft and raw. "She deserves someone who won't look at her as a lady, as a thing to be bought and sold. She deserves someone who will cherish her, and protect her, and let her live the way she needs to live. Someone who will understand that she has seen things, and done things, and become something else in the face of them. Someone who won't hurt her for it. Someone who will _value_ her, as more than a means to a lordship. _That_ is what she deserves, whether it takes the form of a lord or of a smith. Is that you, Gendry Waters? Can you be that for her?"

"... _Yes_ ," he breathed, and almost absently. Almost distantly, as what looked like hope and determination both surged through him. "Yes, my lady. I swear it to you. I know ... I know who she is. Not all of it, but some. I know what she's seen. I wouldn't ever hurt her for it, and not just 'cause she'd promptly kill me. I promise."

She wasn't sure if he'd meant to joke, there. She wasn't sure if it was meant to come out so rueful and warm. His expression froze in alarm immediately afterwards. But that was proof, maybe. That was proof he _did_ know Arya as she was, and love her for it as well.

She wasn't sure what was in her own expression at that either. Whatever it was, he took it amiss. He babbled hastily at her. 

"Look, my lady, she isn't ... I thought she was a boy when I first met her. She got in a fight, and I stepped in. I only found out who she was later, and she ... She fought for us. She got us out of Harrenhal. She wanted us to be family. I didn't ... I was too much of a coward then. I let her down. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to fight for her, the way she fought for me. I want to fight for her brother, for her family. I'm tired of --!"

He cut himself off there. He stopped himself. Sansa thought she might be able to finish it anyway.

"You're tired of being helpless," she said softly. "You're tired of being a pawn in everyone else's wars. You want to fight for something of your own. For a _family_ of your own."

He flinched, slightly. But he nodded. And so did Sansa.

"I know how that feels," she said, calmly and tiredly. "And Arya does love you. Jon does too. I don't know you very well, Gendry, and after all I've seen I'm not particularly inclined to trust my family to those I don't know. But Arya trusts you, and when it comes down to it she's often a better judge than I am. I'm not sure she's wrong about you. I want to hope she's not."

"I'll never hurt her, my lady," he promised vehemently. "I know how it feels to be hurt. So does she. Better than me, I think. I want to be better for her than that. I want to show her there's more to ... That it doesn't have to be like that. That it doesn't all have to be about ... about war and blood and hurting, that people can be _happy_. That they can be safe and they can be happy. I want to show her that. I don't know _how_ , but I do ... I do want to."

Sansa laughed breathlessly. Like it had been punched out of her. She shook her head.

"I don't know either," she said. "Gods, I don't know. I'm not sure if it's possible anymore. Though I want it to be. For all of us. I want that to be possible."

He stared at her. His hand half reached out towards hers. Politeness stopped it. Propriety. But he saw her pain, there. He reached out to her because of it. Sansa straightened herself in the face of that. She firmed both her spine and her purpose.

He was good, she thought. Arya trusted him, Jon trusted him. He was good. The least she could do was give him a chance to prove how much.

"We're gathering tonight," she said, more firmly if maybe a little more distantly. He straightened too, and she did her best to smile and soften it. "The family. I'm trying to arrange it now. I think you should attend. We're, um. We're meeting in Queen Daenerys' chambers. After the evening meal. The family, and those we love. You should be there. Arya chose you. You should come."

And he stared at her for that like she'd hit him between the eyes with his own hammer. He looked like he'd nearly swallowed his own tongue.

"In ... In _Queen Daenerys'_ ..." he stammered. "My lady, I ... I _couldn't_ ..."

She didn't laugh at him. Not quite. She wasn't _that_ cruel. "You fought well enough beside a king," she noted gently. "You hope to marry a king's sister, too. You probably should get used to speaking with royals at some point."

He stared at her in open horror, and Sansa realised that he was, he truly was, not pursuing Arya for her status. He wasn't chasing her because she was a lady, or soon to be the sister of the king. He wasn't chasing her to own her, or use her, or build his influence through hers. The opposite, if anything. He'd wanted to build his influence for himself, by his own deeds. And the knowledge that Arya was sister to a king seemed the _opposite_ of an incentive to him.

Well then. He really _was_ going to need reassurance, wasn't he?

"Don't worry," she said, patting his arm gently and knowing it for useless all the while. "It's family, that's all it is. We're going to be family. All of us. Arya will defend you, whatever happens. As will Jon, as will I. Bran, probably, once he catches up to things. And Ser Davos will be there. He'll mediate for the rest of us, if anything happens. You need only come, Gendry. Don't worry. Arya will stab anyone who looks at you funny. I promise that between us, you'll emerge unscathed."

He dared wear his scepticism openly for that. Sansa near delighted in it. But he softened, finally, and seemed to consider the offer properly, and not just the horror of it.

"Would you truly want me there?" he asked quietly. "I'm not your family yet, my lady, and I'm certainly not the sort to parade before kings and queens. Are you certain you should want me?"

Sansa met his eyes firmly. "If Arya has her way," she said, "you'll be a Stark of Winterfell soon enough. And these are Winterfell's walls. No Stark shall walk among them and flinch for fear of _anyone's_ disapproval. We are all that is left, now, and we shall choose our family as we please. Yes, I want you there. My sister does, so I do too."

He stared at her, and then he dropped his head. It wasn't hiding now, though. It was a bow, and a promise too.

"Then I'll be there for you, my lady," he said, looking back at her. "For Arya too. As long as any of you need me, I'll be there for you."

And Sansa looked at him, and did not weep. "And we for you," she said. "And we for you."

Never alone. None of them. Not ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace may be a bit slower from here on. Migraines and work and Hurricane Ophelia.


End file.
